Class, ' 
 
 Book 
 
 Copyright }J" 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
'49 
 
 <3 /v/^ 
 
 The Gold-Seeker of the Sierras 
 
 BY 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER 
 
 Author of "Memorib and Rime," "Songs op the Sierras," etc. 
 
 I SEP ^L 
 
 ^"yr.r. ...,,„■ 
 
 FUNK & WAGNALLS 
 
 NEW TOEK : 1884. LONDON : 
 
 10 AND 12 Dey Street. 44 Fleet Street, 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
^s 
 
 
 4'^, > 
 
 % 
 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, by 
 
 FUNK & WAGNALLS, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 
 
DEDICATED 
 
 TO 
 
 MY FELIjOW argonauts OF 
 
 '49 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 At the great Centennial dinner of the Association of 
 Fortj-niners on the Fair Grounds in Philadelphia, I 
 read a portion of my drama, The Danites^ and won tlie 
 thanks of the Association for the jDortrayal of earnest 
 manhood " in the brave old days of '49." But General 
 Sutter, the discoverer of gold, who presided on this oc- 
 casion, insisted that the old man " '49," whom he knew 
 and loved, was worthy not only of the leading place in a 
 drama, but a whole volume to himself. I then and 
 there promised to do the desired work. General Sutter 
 furnished me subsequently with many additional notes 
 and facts concerning his singular valor, his dreary years 
 in the tunnel — the first in California — and his final good 
 fortune. 
 
 1 wrote the story and the drama of ** '49 " as soon as 
 possible after my promise to do so. The drama is placed 
 in the archives of the nation at Washington ; so that 
 those who come after us may see the Argonauts as they 
 really were, not as represented in the dime novels and 
 third-class theatres. The story of " '49 " was published 
 in Bret Harte's Overland Monthly. But its publication 
 brought out additional facts — aye, romances in part maybe 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 — from many old miners of the Sierras ; so that the story 
 is now thrice its original length. And yet it is far too 
 short — so short that it is necessarily crude and cramj)ed 
 and unpolished. But bear in mind the characters 
 themselves were rugged, strong, and hard to master. 
 They partook something of the savage splendor of J^ature 
 about them, and remained to the end like their majestic 
 mountains — abrupt, broken, and untamed. Yet if the 
 gold is in the mountains the true miner will hnd it, 
 without road or guide. The readers whose love I 
 cherish, and shall retain to the end of my toil, will follow 
 me through and find the gold, careless of all the rugged 
 ways ; for they know well that Parnassus's self is savage- 
 fronted. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
CONTEI^TS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Westward, Ho !" i) 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 Over the Plains 14 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 Two Years 19 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 In Sierra 25 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A Fragment 38 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 " J ust One Little Song, Love " 49 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 *' I'M A Total Wreck " 58 
 
 CHAPTER VIIT. 
 In the Dark 70 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Going Away 75 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 So Weary ! 86 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 Vigilantes lO-I 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Gnome-Land 114 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 A Cloud op Dust 119 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Out of the Darkness 126 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Pure Gold , 133 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 The Heiress 140 
 
'49, 
 
 THE GOLD-SEEKEE OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HO 
 
 ! " 
 
 The heart of woman is like the heart of my Sierras — some jfind 
 gold there, and some do not. Much depends on the prospector. 
 
 The years 1849-50-52 found that vast region known 
 as the Upper Mississippi Yalley one great camp. The 
 settlers had poured in from the four parts of the world 
 in a v/ar of conquest. Hard and bitter was the unequal 
 fight with the savage elements of the new lands. When 
 the cyclones swept over and buried the little villages hi 
 that early day, no telegraph heralded the settlers' suffer- 
 ings over the world, and brought back substantial sym- 
 path}^ Silently each hardy soldier stood in line, and 
 thousands fell at the post of duty. Disease, cold, heart- 
 sickness, each more terrible than the prowling Indian on 
 the border, laid hard hold of the silent and patient 
 pioneer. 1 know that legions died. I know that all 
 suffered, and suffered terribly ; but 1 never heard one 
 person complain. 
 
 Nearly half a century has passed. The pioneer of this 
 
10 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 great valley lias gone forever. The wheels of progress 
 have rolled over his grave, and levelled it with the fields 
 of golden grain. The silent and hardy pioneer has 
 passed into history. Let the historian do his work as 
 bravely as did this nniqne cliaracter, and the pioneer w^ill 
 stand out on the page a nobler and grander hero than 
 any figure in the Spanisli Conquest. 
 
 In the old Greek days the heroes beat upon their 
 shields with lance and sword, and, standing up before 
 the world, loudly proclaimed their deeds, their valor, 
 their victories, their sufi:ering, and their sorrows to all 
 who could be induced to listen. Homer's heroes, the 
 heroes of the stage — and, indeed, heroes of all dramas, 
 from that day to the present — have been so disposed ; a 
 loud and pretentious lot. But the American hero is a 
 silent man. 
 
 Make a note of this. It is the line that is to distin- 
 guish the heroes of the Old World from the New. This 
 distinction is to mark the American drama, the Ameri- 
 can literature, from that of the Old World. Grant used 
 but two words at Yicksburg — " Unconditional surren- 
 der." 
 
 But to return to this vast camp, teeming, surging in 
 the mighty Yalley of the Mississippi. 
 
 My father, who was the schoolmaster of the little 
 settlement where dwelt the remarkable man who has 
 since become known to the world as '^ '49," was split- 
 ting rails in the woods one Saturday afternoon, near his 
 log-cabin, when this tall, strong young neighbor, rifle on 
 shoulder and squirrel in hand, came hurriedly through 
 the thick wood and stood suddenly before him. There 
 was a strange light in his bright black eyes as he spoke : 
 
 ^' Squire, they've found gold aw^ay out yonder — six 
 months' journey away. Gold, squire, gold in the banks 
 
'' AVESTWARD, HO ! " 11 
 
 of tlie rivers, in tlie beds of tlie rivers, in the ground 
 everywhere !" 
 
 The man bronght the breech of his gun sohdly to the 
 ground, throwing down his squirrel and pushing back 
 his coonskin cap as my father straightened up from his 
 work and stood before him. 
 
 He looked tall and as hardy as the trees about us. lie 
 clinelied his fist emphatically, and throwing it out toward 
 the far, far West, in the supposed direct io]i of the gold 
 fields, continued : 
 
 '^ And I'm going there to get gold for Mary and my 
 kid Charlie, squire — get gold for 'em, and get out of 
 this fever-and-ager land." 
 
 And then this tall, dark man and my father sat down 
 on a ^^ rail-cut" together, and talked almost in whispers 
 for a long time. The squirrels chattered overhead and 
 leaped from branch to branch, but the man with the gun 
 did not heed them. 1 and my two little brothers left off 
 building our bark-house in the hollow stump, and stood 
 close about our father's knee to listen. This young man, 
 Charles Devine, was our nearest and dearest neighbor. 
 He had a young wife, beautiful in soul and body as him- 
 self. Then there w^as the little boy-baby lying on its 
 back and crowing in the cradle. These he would leave 
 behind for a year — only one year, at furthest — and boldly 
 strike out for the far gold fields of California. 
 
 As they talked together, I heard him chuckle with 
 delight as he spoke of soon returning w^ith a great bag 
 full of gold-dust, and of pouring it all out in the cradle 
 about the chubby feet of his fat, crowing little baby- 
 boy. 
 
 '' Only a year, squire. You see, if I don't strike it by 
 that time, of course 1 can come back and wrestle with 
 the woods here ; and shake with the ager, too, if I must. 
 
12 '40, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 Yes, Mary is willing, and brave about it, too. Oli, of 
 course she'll cry a bit — women are that way, you know, 
 squire. But I'll put in the garden truck before 1 start 
 next spring, you know. And then she always milks the 
 cow herself ; and as the bit of land is paid for, and the 
 cabin safe and solid, roof and cellar, why, of course Mary 
 — Mary won't — " 
 
 The man's voice began to tremble a bit here, and, 
 making believe that he suddenly saw a squirrel in the 
 boughs above, he again took up his gun and found 
 diversion for a moment in trying to get a shot ; and then 
 he soon went away. 
 
 But he had staged long enough to give my father the 
 fever also, and before the next spring he, too, was yok- 
 ing up oxen, cows, calves, anything that could draw, and 
 preparing to fall in with that greatest caravan which the 
 world has ever witnessed. 
 
 On the seventeenth day of March three covered 
 w^agons, drawn by long lines of yoked cattle — old, tried, 
 and patient steers at the wheel and in the lead, with 
 bellowing cows and kicking calves between — drew up 
 before our^ cabin to take in the little family, the pro- 
 visions, and the few household goods that were worth 
 transportation. 
 
 It had been arranged, after all, that Charles Devine 
 was to go with my father as one of his men ; and so it 
 chanced that, when all were ready to start, 1 went over 
 with him to his cabin, when he went to say good -by to 
 Mary, to take her a little present from my mother. 
 
 There was a bright hickory -bark fire blazing on the 
 hearth, for there was frost in the air, and the wind blew 
 keen and cold. The little baby-boy lay crowing good- 
 naturedly and carelessly in the cradle. 
 
 But the young wife's heart was full and almost ready 
 
'MVESTWARD, ho!" 13 
 
 to burst, altliongh she attempted to smile as we en- 
 tered. 
 
 ^^ Well, Mary, my i^mi and — and belt." 
 
 Slie took the rifle from the buck-horns over the 
 mantelpiece and put it in his hand. Then she took 
 down the shot-pouch and powder-horn, and, as he 
 stooped a little, put them tenderly over his shoulder. 
 After that she took the belt, with its big sheath-knife, 
 from off the bedpost back in the corner of the clean and 
 tidy cabin, and, reaching about his waist, buckled it 
 there silently. 
 
 '^ Good-by, Mary ; good — good — " 
 
 But she had turned suddenly, and, leaning her elbows 
 on the mantelpiece, with her face in an upturned palm, 
 the tears ran down like rain, and her lips quivered so and 
 she trembled so that she did not dare try to speak at all. 
 And then the man backed toward the door by the cradle, 
 and, holding his gun in his left hand, he reached the 
 other down to the baby. The playful little thing did 
 not dream of care, or trouble, or separation, and wdth its 
 fat fists doubled, it crowed in his face and kicked up a 
 chubby little foot. And so the man smiled through his 
 tears, and shook tliat little foot for farewell. Then he 
 hurried through the door, and did not look back. But 
 1, close at his heels, saw over my shoulder that Mary 
 still stood at the mantel, motionless, voiceless, the picture 
 of despair. 
 
 The dog came out of the kennel in the corner of the 
 yard, and laid a cold nose in his master's hand as we 
 hurried away, and then went back. 
 
 And so the good-by Vv'as over. And the stolid oxen 
 in the lead were turned resolutely to the West, and we 
 rolled away in the wake of the setting sun. 
 
CHAPTEE 11. 
 
 OVER THE PLAINS. 
 
 We climbed the rock-built breasts of earth ! 
 
 We saw the snowy mountains rolled 
 
 Like mighty billows ; saw the birth 
 
 Of sudden dawn ; beheld the gold 
 
 Of awful sunsets ; saw the face 
 
 Of God and named it boundless space ! 
 
 It was nearly a montli before Devine spoke of his wife 
 and baby, and then it was in half whispers to niy 
 mother, as we were camped on the banks of the Missouri 
 River, binding rafts to carry lis over. 
 
 How he dwelt on every little detail of that separation ! 
 Mary leaning there against the mantel, with the tears 
 raining down, not saying one v/ord ; the little boy crow- 
 ing in the cradle, kicking up his little chubby foot in his 
 face ; the faithful dog stealing out to lay his cold nose 
 in his hand, and then back to his kennel, as if he knew 
 his place was at Mary's side. 
 
 Oh, it would take a full book to follow Devine in his 
 quiet talks to my mother, by the camp-fires of the tall 
 and silent woman he had left leaning there by the man- 
 tel, and that little boy-baby that had thrust up a little 
 foot in his face when he should have given his hand ! 
 
 He would not talk to the men of Mary. He would 
 not even mention her name to them. Sacred silence ! 
 And yet all his tender talk to mother of her and the baby 
 was brimful of hope and perfect confidence that all would 
 be well in the end. 
 
OYER THE PLAINS. 15 
 
 " Only a year, inarm — only one year, squire, and I'll 
 be by lier side as slie stands there leanin' by the mantel- 
 piece, gold or no gold. And I'll snatch that baby np 
 out of the cradle and toss it np to the rafters. The 
 rascal ! to reach me a foot when he onglit to have 
 reached me a little fist !" 
 
 And here the voice would drop very low and tender, 
 and the head wonld turn aside, and the man would seem 
 to think of something to do, and so get up hastily and go 
 out and away by himself. 
 
 What a multitude ! An army ! The world will 
 never approximate an adequate idea of that mighty flood 
 that burst out over the confines of the border and flowed 
 on toward the distant West. 
 
 I say flowed toward tlie far, far West advisedly ; for 
 that mighty flood never reached the Pacific. It sank 
 down in the deserts. There was no chronicler then to 
 take note. Statistics were unknown. For seven 
 months' incessant journey we were rarely out of sight of 
 new-made graves, and at some camps it was diflicult to 
 find room for the tent because of the graves ! 
 
 Little towns have taken their places now, and no sign 
 of these graves is to be seen. But oh, the sickness ! — 
 the cholera ! — the fevers ! — the heart-sickness ! — the 
 despair ! 
 
 And steadily the mighty caravan moved on. Some- 
 times the whole Plains seemed one vast sea of covered 
 wagons ; then sometimes we would be left in camp with 
 no one in sight but our own little company. 
 
 I recall, on one memorable Sunday morning, the tall, 
 silent figure of Devine in battle. We were camped on 
 the headwaters of the Colorado. He had thus far 
 escaped all maladies, and was the most hardy and 
 efficient of men. But the fearful scenes around us liad 
 
16 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 made liim now even more silent and reserved than ever, 
 and he rarelj spoke to any one but my mother. 
 
 Our train was known on the Plains as the " Sunday 
 train ;" for, under the lead of my pious father, we would 
 not, under any circumstances, travel on Sunday. This, 
 of course, delayed us, subjected us to much inconven- 
 ience, and provoked the derision of irreligious companies. 
 But my father ^vas a determined man. He had set out 
 to live as a Cliristian on the Plains, and he would have 
 filled one of the ten thousand graves by the v/ayside 
 rather than for a moment have de2>arted from this pur- 
 l^ose. 
 
 On this Sunday morning prayers were not yet over 
 when a band of mounted and half -nude Indians came 
 like a whirlwind over the sandy eastern hill. They had 
 been fired upon by a neighboring camp of reckless whites 
 and were furious. 
 
 My father laid down the Book, and, beseeching all to 
 remain behind, went out to meet the savages, and, if 
 possible, pacify them. They circled about the camp, 
 yelled, leaned from their horses, caught up sand from 
 the ground, threw it mockingly at ni}^ father, and finally 
 discharged a volley of arrows into the neighboring camp. 
 
 In a great hurry, and without his hat, my father 
 rushed back into the corral, where he met Devine, 
 already armed and at the head of the men, and going 
 to the assistance of those in trouble. 
 
 When my father, wlio never fired a gun in all his life 
 • — for he was a Quaker so far as doctrines of peace go — 
 saw that two men had been shot down and others 
 slightly wounded, he looked at Devine, and said, 
 sharply : 
 
 ^' Let 'em have it, Charlie, if you must !" 
 
 There was a volley from our men instantly, but not a 
 
OVER THE PLAINS. 17 
 
 single savage unhorsed. The Indians leaned so far on the 
 other side of their horses that they were hard to liit. 
 However, in the next volley the horse of the great black 
 chief was fatally shot, and came flying right in the teeth 
 of our men. 
 
 A little way from our corral of wagons the horse sank 
 down in the sand, and the great, hairy, black, and nearly 
 naked savage lay there, with one leg fastened under his 
 dead horse, helpless. He was unarmed, and a dozen 
 rifles pointed at his breast. 
 
 Over his shoulder he threw some hot, fierce words of 
 command to his followers, and, with a final Parthian 
 shower of arrows, they disappeared as they came. 
 
 Then the mighty savage raised his hand to his mouth, 
 and gave such a whoop of defiance as no man now can 
 give. 
 
 Devine looked at his men, and then at my father at 
 the door of the corral. No one of the men ventured to 
 kill the defiant savage, and my father did not intercede 
 to save him. Why ? He was holding a dying neighbor 
 in his arms, and trying to draw the feathered arrow from 
 his breast. And so Devine raised his gun and shot the 
 giant dead. 
 
 One of the men wound his hands in the wild man's 
 hair, and thus dragged him into camp through the white 
 sand. Then, when the sun went down, three dead men 
 — Cliristians and savage — were laid in the hollowed white 
 sand together. 
 
 Devine, the next day, as we moved on, was very, very 
 thoughtful. He was even sad, and he remained so to 
 the end of the journey. 
 
 His was a singularly sensitive nature. The great mys- 
 tery of life and death, the dead men left back there in 
 the burning sand of the desert, the black and hairy 
 
18 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 savage with tlie blazing eyes that he had shot dead while 
 he looked him in the face, eye to eye, soul to soal — all 
 this made him profoundly thoughtful. 
 
 As we neared the Sierras the roads divided. Some 
 men sought the mines and mountains ; others, of a more 
 pastoral turn, desired the valleys and gentler pursuits. 
 And so, at the base of this mighty wall, as if it were 
 God's citadel guarding all Paradise, the last camp-fire 
 was kindled. 
 
 We, the few survivors of the '^ Sunday train," were 
 about to sejiarate forever here in the sage-brush and 
 burning sands of I^evada ! 
 
 " You will go back to Mary soon as possible, 
 Charlie ?" said my father, as he held his hand. 
 
 ''In one year, squire and marm, I'll see Mary. Of 
 course, 1 thought it would only be one year from the 
 time we started ; but, you see, it's been a seven months' 
 pull, and here we are all tuckered out and poor as rats, 
 and not a cent ; and so — But one year, squire, in one 
 year I'll strike it and get back to Mary leanin' by the 
 mantel, an' — an' the little baby crowin' in the cradle. 
 Say, squire, you write her — write her a letter, school- 
 master, for me, and say one year more and I'll see baby. 
 Good-by — good-by !" 
 
CHAPTER HI. 
 
 TWO YEAKS. 
 
 True valor knows not valor's name ; 
 
 True valor knows not of defeat ; 
 
 No thing in nature knows retreat, 
 But, cloud or sun, keeps on the same. 
 
 If this and succeeding cliapters of the biography of 
 Charles Devine are not as realistic and photographic as 
 are the opening, it is because I was no longer at his side, 
 and had to depend largely on others for fact and incident 
 concerning him and his. Yet his is not a phenomenal 
 history at all. Were this so, 1 certainly should not 
 trouble either myself or my readers with his story ; but 
 1 give it as a type of one of ten thousand. 
 
 ]VIy father, who settled far away to the north, and 
 never saw Devine again, wrote, the letter as desired. 
 And it meant a great deal, this writing letters at that 
 time. 
 
 As for Devine, he could not w^rite at all — a not un- 
 common thing forty years ago. Boldly he pushed right 
 into the heart of the Sierras near Dovv^nieville, and went 
 to w^ork at once with a zeal that bordered on desperation. 
 He could scarcely take time to sleep. With the first 
 splendor of the sun bursting over the mighty wall of 
 snow about him, he was forth to his work. 
 
 He made few friends. He had little to say to any 
 one. His thoughts were all on his w^ife. He could see 
 Mary standing there weeping by the mantelpiece ; he 
 
20 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 wanted to be back at her side to comfort her. He could 
 hear that httle boy crowing in his cradle. He wanted 
 to go back and pour his bag of gold at the baby's feet, 
 and then catch him up and toss him in his arms till he 
 touched the rafters. 
 
 But the long, long journey across the boundless desert, 
 the weary, weary tramp, tramp, tramp for more than 
 half a year, had left the man weak as a child. 
 
 And then the gold was not as abundant as men had 
 imagined. Besides, it cost much to live, and the win- 
 ter was terribly severe. The water was all locked up 
 in ice for long, unbroken months, and this man, so far 
 from growing rich in the mines of California, was, in 
 reality, becoming destitute — was hungry, starving. 
 
 He saw the seventeenth day of March come and go, 
 while he sat by his cabin fire, snowbound and hungry, 
 half clad and almost ill, in a mountain gorge of Cali- 
 fornia. 
 
 The year was up, yet he v/as thousands of miles away, 
 and not an ounce of gold in his empty palm. Soon, 
 however, the warm winds came up from the southern 
 valleys, and again the earth was appealed to for the 
 golden secrets of her bosom. 
 
 A mine was opened in the canon, and at the end of 
 two months of prodigious toil, lifting up boulders that 
 required the strength of a giant, building up walls that 
 required the skill of an architect to make secure, toiling, 
 sweating, starving, the man at last reached the bed-rock 
 and began to find a few grains of gold-dust. 
 
 But oh, so few ! It was enough to make his great 
 heart fail him utterly, this niggardly recompense for all 
 his toil. 
 
 But he kept on. "What else could ho do ? There 
 could be no turning back. In that early day it took 
 
TWO YEARS. 21 
 
 money as well as time to make a journey. He had not 
 thought of all this. It had seemed to him that he could 
 return to Mary at any time. 
 
 But now he knew^ too well how many thousands whose 
 hearts had failed them were trying to beg their way back 
 to the States. He could not make one of this melan- 
 choly band. 
 
 The flowers came out on the hillside, finally, and birds 
 sang in the trees about his cabin. Things began to look 
 more clieerful. He made up his mind one sultry Sunday 
 afternoon that on the next Sunday he would go down to 
 Downieville and get some one to write a letter to Mary, 
 telling her that he had concluded to make a two-year 
 task of it instead of one. 
 
 The mine in the cailon was deep, and promised well. 
 Men who passed that way said it was only a question of 
 time when he should strike it rich and get heaps and 
 heaps of gold. As yet he had not one dollar in his 
 purse. He was even ragged, almost naked. His food 
 was still of the most frugal kind. 
 
 He laid great plans for the coming summer, how- 
 ever. He would get some flaming red flannel shirts, a 
 great broad hat, top boots, and a broad belt soon. He 
 would employ some strong man to help to wrestle with 
 the great boulders in the bed of the caiion just as soon as 
 he struck '' pay dirt," and then he would get out all his 
 gold before the return of snow and ice. 
 
 These were his dreams and hopes on that sultry Sun- 
 day afternoon. 
 
 Suddenly the sky grew dai'k. The birds about him 
 ceased to sing. A little brown chipmunk, wdiieh he had 
 trained to take crumbs from his hand, came scrambling 
 up from the water side in the .canon and clanibered to 
 his shoulder. 
 
22 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 Above him, to the east, the mighty pillars of snow 
 stood out above the dark, rolling clouds, as if they were 
 not of the earth. Then there was a great sigh of the 
 wind ; then silence — darkness. An awful sigh of the 
 wind through the eanon again, and then a drenching rain 
 burst upon the world ! 
 
 The mine was as level as his cabin -floor the next morn- 
 ing. The squirrels were in the trees as before, the birds 
 were even more musical than ever. But this man's 
 shoulders were bowed as with a load that was more than 
 he could bear. 
 
 Only yesterday Mary was not so far away after all — a 
 matter of but two or three thousand miles. [Now she 
 was millions of miles away. 
 
 The white and eternal wall of snow to the east lifted 
 like an inaccessible barrier, cold and forever impassable, 
 between them. 
 
 He did not taste food that day. He did not taste food 
 for nearly a week. His pick and shovel were buried 
 twenty feet in the bed of the canon, and his pocket and 
 purse were empty. He did not taste food, because 
 there was no food or money, or means of getting either, 
 w^ithin his reach. 
 
 Some miners passing up the canon by his cabin con- 
 cluded to look in, for the place seemed deserted. A 
 squirrel was shelling a pine-burr at the door-sill. 
 
 There on his bed of pine boughs in the corner lay 
 Devine, ill, almost dead ! Fever ? Malaria ? Hunger ? 
 Heart-starvation ? 
 
 No matter. The man was sick — dying, it seemed. 
 
 It was midwinter before he w^as able to go back to his 
 own cabin from Downieville, where the kindly miners 
 had taken him to be cared for. 
 
 And what was there at that cabin to return to ? The 
 
TWO YEARS. 23 
 
 man was loaded down, too, with a debt of obligation and 
 honor that was heavy indeed. The second seventeenth 
 day of March found this hardj^ and once-hopeful miner 
 more despondent than did the first. 
 
 As the spring came on, having contrived, by working 
 for others, to pay up his debts, he resolved, in despair, 
 to leave this canon, and seek a more congenial spot in or 
 near a newer camp not far away, known as Sierra. 
 
 This illness and the obligations it had placed him 
 under had proved doubly unfortunate. It had tin-own 
 him among generous but reckless men. He felt that ho 
 was bound to be social, and sociability in those days 
 meant but one thing. And so, as he was now going 
 away to a neighboring camp to try his fortunes there, 
 what could he do, he thought, but take a farewell drink 
 with those who had been so generous and true ? Ah, that 
 multitude which no man can number who have yielded 
 to the same plausible tempter ! 
 
 And so it was that all drank together again and again, 
 and told their secrets to each other, and talked of rich 
 mines, of returning home loaded down with gold, till 
 they forgot the hunger, the cold, the rags, and the 
 wretchedness of the mines. 
 
 For the first time in years Devine was really sociable, 
 merry, glad. 
 
 Surely now, in this new camp, he would strike it soon, 
 and then go back, loaded with wealth, and stand, a 
 strange, bearded man, at Mary's side. 
 
 That night, in all confidence that it would be written 
 and forwarded, he dictated a warm, hopeful, and even 
 glowing letter to his wife and child. 
 
 With the morning's sun, a roll of blankets on his 
 back, a pick and shovel on his shoulder, and with 
 bearded face lifted hopefully to the snow-peaks of tlie 
 
24 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 Sierras, Charles Devine set out to seek his fortune a Httle 
 further on. 
 
 A little further on ! What old Californian has not 
 heard that expression — heard it, felt it, lived ifc, till it 
 became a part of his being ? 
 
CHAPTER lY 
 
 IN SIERRA. 
 
 My brave woiid-biiilders of the West ! 
 
 Why, who hath known ye ? Who doth know 
 
 Bnt I, who on thy peaks of snow 
 Brake bread the first ? Who loved ye best, 
 
 Who holds ye still of more stern worth 
 
 Than all proud peoj^le of the earth '? 
 
 Yea ! I, the rhymer of wild rhymes, 
 
 Indifferent of blame or praise, 
 
 Still sing of ye, as one who plays 
 The same old air in all strange climes — 
 
 The same wild, piercing highland air, 
 
 Because— because his heart is there. 
 
 Let lis pass by these first few years in Sierra. Tliey 
 are so sad, so like the two years in the desolate canon, 
 that it would be a dreary and painful repetition to dwell 
 upon them. I only want it clearly understood that this 
 man whose biography 1 have undertaken to write did his 
 best. 
 
 This camp of Sierra was now an old battlefield of ^-iants. 
 Mighty men came here, laid hand on the mountains, 
 and tore them down. They led rivers over the hilltops, 
 and uprooted whole forests with their hj^draulics and 
 mining engines. They fought nature face to face— these 
 giants, these horny-handed, tall, and terrible men of '49. 
 
 A few survived. A iew gathered up gold from the 
 placers where it had been washed down the mountains, 
 and turned their backs forever on the mines — old men. 
 
2G '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OE THE SIERRAS. 
 
 made old in a single decade, gray and broken from toil 
 and care. 
 
 A few, only a few, of those giants went back home. 
 The others ? Up on a hillside, where a new forest is 
 springing up, and where the rabbits dance all the 
 twib'ght, and the quail pipes all day, they have laid 
 down to rest forever and forever. The boy with his 
 shotgun avoids this little inclosure on the hillside, and 
 steps high and hurriedly, and looks the other way, and 
 2:>ei'haps wliistles as he passes. 
 
 With two exceptions, the old forty-niners — all save 
 the few that returned home — have gone up there on the 
 liillside. High up in the sunlight, nearer the gates of 
 (rod, and away from the noise and rush and roar of the 
 mine, tliey sleep the eternal sleep. 
 
 These two exceptions were old " '49" and his friend. 
 Colonel Billy. And then tliere are two old graves that 
 are not up on the hillside. But they are down on a spur 
 of hill that breaks from the steep and stupendous moun- 
 tain, and lifts its rocky back between the cabin of old 
 " '49" and the little town at the mouth of the mighty 
 cafion. 
 
 A great dead oak lifts its leafless branches above these 
 two graves ; the bark is dropping aVvay and falling on 
 the unnamed sleepers, and the long gray moss swings 
 above tliem mournfully in the wind. This old tree died 
 many, many years ago, when these two men died at its 
 roots and were buried there. It ought to fall. It ought 
 to have fallen long since. But no ; it lifts its long, bare 
 arms on high, in mute and naked pity, lone and bald and 
 white with age. But more of these tw^o graves further 
 on. 
 
 l^obody in Sierra knew " '49's " real name when he 
 came, and so, as he was one of the lieroes of '49, they 
 
IN SIERRA. 27 
 
 simply called him " '49," as many others who had come 
 thus early were called in other camps. 
 
 And whence he came no one knew or cared to know. 
 Once or twice, when he lirst began to have his periodical 
 sprees and was yet counted a bit respectable, he had, in 
 a gush of confidence and tears peculiar to warm-hearted 
 men wdien first intoxicated, told to a group of fellow- 
 carousers a pitiful story about a lone loving wife and a 
 beautiful boy-baby in a cradle, waiting for him faraway. 
 But as there w^ere so many who had wives and babies 
 waiting for them far away, there seemed nothing re- 
 markable in this ; and, finding little sympathy, he locked 
 up his heart and kept his secrets to himself thereafter. 
 
 But about this time, and before he had made any very 
 fast friendship except with old Colonel Billy, then the 
 lawyer of the camp, the event happened which put 
 «f '49" quite outside of all sympathy or association with 
 his fellows. 
 
 Being a man of observation nnd thought, he had 
 settled upon a theory as to the source of the rich 
 deposits of gold wdiich had made the camp famous, and 
 liad acted accordingly. It was his theory that a vein of 
 gold-bearing quartz had crossed this canon, or, more 
 properly speaking, he had discovered that the little 
 stream flowing down and forming the canon had crossed 
 a vein of gold-bearing quartz, and out of this quartz 
 Vw^ashed down the deposits of ragged and quartz-loaded 
 nuggets that lay at its bed about the mouth of the canon. 
 
 This was long before quartz-mining had been thouo-ht 
 of. 
 
 Convinced of the correctness of his theory, he located 
 his cabin a good distance up the canon, and, having dis- 
 covered a lead of white quartz running along the rugged, 
 pine-covered back of one of the mighty spurs of the 
 
28 
 
 Sierras, shooting down into tlie canon, lie began, alone 
 and single-handed, with but little money, to drive a 
 tunnel into this rocky spur, and try to pierce that ledge 
 of quartz on the water-level. 
 
 The magnitude of this enterprise oppressed liis mind 
 and made him thoughtful. And then, being by nature 
 a head and shoulders taller, mentally, than those about 
 him, lie soon found himself in some sort isolated from 
 his fellows. 
 
 Besides that, there was something about this tunnel 
 that the camp did not understand. They had never 
 heard of such a thing at the time. What did the man 
 mean ? Did he have secrets of hidden treasure unre- 
 vealed to them ? Men are distrustful of that v/hich they 
 do not understand. 
 
 But he kept on persistently, j^atiently, at his work. 
 Then it began to be rumored that he was rich. And, 
 indeed, why did he bore away forever into the earth if 
 he was not making it pay ? 
 
 Idlers of the camp began to speculate as to the prob- 
 able amount of gold he had hidden away in that old 
 cabin, that smoked and smoked ^perpetually alongside the 
 trail under the pines on the rugged hillside, just above 
 the muddy little stream. 
 
 Soon two well-dressed and rather respectable-looking 
 strangers rode into camp, and began to make friends with 
 the saloon-keepers and their patrons. They asked many 
 questions about the hermit of the tunnel, and, along with 
 the rest of the men, sj)eculated largely as to the probable 
 amount he had saved up from his w^ork. It w^as com- 
 puted to be an enormous sum. 
 
 Now it was that the sad event happened which made 
 his isolation complete. 
 
 One night he was startled by finding two men climb- 
 
IN" SIEREA. 29 
 
 ing down his cliimney. He caught up his gnn, which 
 he kept all the time loaded with buckshot. Then, rush- 
 ing out as the two men attempted to climb from the low, 
 broad chimney by which they had entered, he fired as 
 they tumbled from out the craterdike top, and filled 
 them both with buckshot. 
 
 The next morning, as some miners came up the canon 
 from town to work their sluices, there, imder a broad 
 green oak by the side of the trail, and just on the sum- 
 mit of the ridge that rose between the window of old 
 a '49 's" cabin and the town, they found the two men, 
 dead. 
 
 They had tried to creep back to camp. But they had 
 only strength to drag themselves to the top of this rocky 
 little ridge ; and there, under the oak, the one resting 
 his back against it, and the other resting his head in the 
 lap of his companion, the two men were dead. 
 
 On what slender things hinge the greatest conse- 
 quences ! 
 
 ''He was a-holdin' of his head, as if to try to help 
 him like ; and both stone-dead." 
 
 This was what Colonel Billy said, in a sort of husl^y 
 whisper, to " '4:9,"whenhe told him that morning in his 
 tunnel ; for the herinit had not troubled himself further 
 than to fire the fatal shots, and then to go back into his 
 cabin and barricade his door, and wait the possible 
 second attack. But hearing nothing further, he sup- 
 posed the robbers, whoever they might have been, had 
 decided that they had had enough. And not knowing 
 that he had killed any one, possibly not really caring 
 very keenly in this case, he had gone back to his tunnel 
 to work as if nothing unusual had happened. 
 
 If the one had not crawled into the arms of the other ; 
 if they had not tried to go back to town ; if they had 
 
30 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 not died there by the side of the trail, under the great 
 oak, on the top of the Httlc ridge, and on the one pleas- 
 ant spot in all the cafion, the camp might not have cared. 
 
 But ^' he was a-holdin' of his head, as if to help him 
 like, and both stone-dead." And so the camp pitied 
 these men. And as the camp pitied these men, it hated 
 "'49." The camp said the men did not mean to rob 
 him. The camp said they were jolly good fellows, who 
 only wanted to frighten the hermit ; and so it held him 
 responsible for their deaths. 
 
 They dug two graves there, side by side, nnder the 
 oak, in the rotten white quartz rock, and Is^id the two 
 men in them, just as they had died. 
 
 Nobody knew their names, and so no names were 
 carved on the tree. But it died all the same. Perhaps 
 tliey cut some of its roots in digging the two graves in 
 tlie bed of quartz. 
 
 The trail took a little turn after that at this point, and 
 kept closer to the stream. We don't like to see a grave 
 in our road. And yet we know quite well that every 
 one of our roads will end in a grave. 
 
 The trail took a little turn at " '49's" cabin, too. 
 Men did not want to meet a murderer face to face every 
 day. And so the trail took a '^ cut off " at the ridge on 
 which the cabin stood, a little further back from the 
 stream. 
 
 No one made any open complaint whatever against 
 this isolated man. But he was let alone. And he felt 
 this fearfully. As men left him alone, he left men 
 alone. The gulf between him and the world, you may 
 be sure, did not grow narrov/er as years swept on. 
 
 The ridge that lifted between him and the town was 
 like a mighty stone wall, that never could be scaled by 
 him. But, worst of all, right on the summit of this lay 
 
m SIERRA. 31 
 
 those two nameless graves. The white quartz that had 
 been thrown out in digging them, and that was heaped 
 high over the dead, did not settle and sink down out of 
 sight. It did not turn gray or brown or crumble to dust 
 under the marching feet of Time. It did not hide down 
 behind grasses or weeds or bushes. But bald and white 
 and ghastly it gleamed, in moon or sun, rising there in 
 eternal testimony against him. 
 
 This cabin of his had but one window in its one dark 
 and desolate room. That window had been made to look 
 out down the caiion, over the ridge and town, toward 
 the pleasant valley far away. This was the one lookout. 
 But up before this started the two graves, like ghosts that 
 ne^er would go away. 
 
 Yet the man kept on patiently at his work. Now and 
 then he had protracted spells of drunkenness. Perhaps 
 he was trying to forget the two graves that glared in at 
 him through the window. Or was it the tall and beauti- 
 ful woman, leaning by the mantelpiece, and waiting and 
 waiting far away, that he was trying so hard to forget ? 
 
 He rarely went to town except on these unhappy oc- 
 casions. The butcher brought him his meat when he 
 ordered it, and the grocer brought him his bread when 
 he had money to pay for it. 
 
 By this time he was computed to be enormously 
 wealthy. In fact, the camp had grown so envious of his 
 good fortune, and so eager to get at the secret of his 
 wealth, that two enterprising rascals, Gar Dosson and 
 Phin Emens, had secretly started a tunnel from the other 
 side of the steep, rocky ridge. They were perfectly 
 certain he had found an enormous deposit of gold. 
 Would a man work away there alone live, ten, fifteen, 
 twenty years for nothing ? 
 
 About this time a little girl — a starved, pinched, piti- 
 
32 . '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 fill child — wasfoTind roaming about camp with an Indian 
 woman, who claimed her as her daughter ; though she did 
 not look at all like an Indian. This child would sing or 
 dance, or do almost anything to amuse the miners and 
 earn bread and money for her mother. 
 
 Thev went from cabin to cabin. They came to the 
 cabin of old '''49," and, without suspecting that they 
 were doing anything unusual, entered, as lie sat there 
 looking out of the window at the two white spots on the 
 ridge. 
 
 The desolate man started to his feet. No one save 
 himself and Colonel Billy had crossed that threshold for 
 nearly a quarter of a century. At first he was angry — 
 very angry. And tlien he was glad — very glad. His 
 heart went out to this little girl. He was so glad they 
 had not heard about the dead men. He had grov^n 
 morbid during all these years. He feared some one 
 might tell the cliild, and make lier shun him. And so 
 he treated her witli all the tenderness of a father. 
 
 By and by she disappeared. This nearly broke his 
 heart. They had been such friends. At last he found 
 that she, with her mother, had been taken to the Indian 
 Reservation — to the Reservation to die ! For the first 
 time in more than twenty years this singular man fas- 
 tened up his cabin and went away. He bought a horse 
 in the valley, and rode night and day till he reached the 
 Reservation. 
 
 The mother w^as already dead — if mother she was — and 
 the child dying. He took the little skeleton in his arms, 
 hid her under his blanket, skulked through the post to 
 where his horse stood tethered, and, mounting, bore the 
 dying creature back to life and health in the mountains. 
 
 Soon a smoke was seen curling up from '' '49's'' cabin 
 in its old tired fashion, and the miners knev7 he had 
 
IN" SIERRA. 33 
 
 come back. It was a matter of indifference to all, of 
 course. Men spoke of the fact only as folks speak of 
 the weather. 
 
 a J49?5 -j^rj^^ gg^^^]^ |-Q Colonel Billy one evening as this 
 child stood between his knees : 
 
 '' Why, Billy, she is twenty carats ! Yes, she is 
 twenty carats fine, Billy !" 
 
 But old Colonel Billy, who had less sentiment than 
 whiskey in him, only called her " Carrots" in answer to 
 the eulogy of his friend ; and so " Carrots' ' she was called 
 by the camp after that. But " '49," with loving adroit- 
 ness, succeeded sometimes in twisting this name into 
 '^Carrie." 
 
 By this time there had come into camp a certain, or, 
 rather, uncertain, old woman with her daughter ; and, 
 later, they were employed at the saloon of Gar Dosson, 
 to decoy miners to the gaming-tables and the bar. • 
 
 And yet it was whispered that the girl was not the 
 daughter of '' Old Mississip," as the woman was called, 
 but that she was one of the survivors of the Mountain 
 Meadow Massacre, whom the old woman for a trifling 
 j)resent had purchased from the Indians. 
 
 Socrates, perhaps the wisest of the wise fools of old, 
 said that the only wholly happy being is the convalescent. 
 In this truth I find an explanation for the unaccountable 
 calm and tranquil tenderness that now took possession of 
 Carrie. After the terrible scenes just passed, one would 
 say that she should have wept herself away and died of 
 grief. On the contrary, she never spoke of the past, or 
 seemed to think of it at all. Day after day she grew 
 stronger, and day by day took longer walks up the steep 
 hillsides to gather wild flowers for " '49," and such 
 fruits and roots as the ground and bushes bear in that 
 altitude. 
 
34 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 One evening, as ^' '49" came home from his tunnel, 
 where he now worked incessantly from dawn till dusk, 
 he saw a man stooping and stealing away, in the twi- 
 light, from the low window of the cabin. Who was tliis 
 man ? And what did he want ? Was it the gold which 
 he was supposed to possess, or the girl ? 
 
 There was a battered old bulldog, with three legs, a 
 hare-lip, and no ears or tail to speak of, down on 
 Butcher's Flat. 
 
 This dog was old, and seemed almost useless now. 
 But he had been terrible in his day. At night he had 
 been used for years as the one and only watch at the ex- 
 press-office, where he slept, or pretended to sleep, with 
 only one eye shut, on a heap of gold dust as big as a 
 Mexican's wash-bowl. By day this enormous brute had 
 been used by the butchers to catch and throw Mexican 
 cattle. 
 
 But now that the glory had departed from the camp, 
 and the gold and the butchers with it, the old and ugly 
 bulldog became a sort of pensioner, limping like a neglect- 
 ed soldier from door to door, eating the bread of charity. 
 
 " '49" went down and got the bulldog and brought 
 him into his cabin. A great leather collar was buckled 
 about his neck, and a heavy log-chain bound him to the 
 bedpost. 
 
 The old dog liked this. He knew that this prepara- 
 tion meant war ; and he was fond of battle. 
 
 He became as savage as a hunted grizzly. Let even a 
 rat cross the roof, or rasp the boots or tin cans around 
 that cabin, and the old warrior would be in arms in a 
 moment. K a stranger neared the place, he would roar 
 like a Numidian lion. Yet to the two inmates of this 
 dark, low, and ever-stooping cabin, he was tenderness 
 personified. 
 
IK SIERRA. 35 
 
 The man and tlie young girl were drawn closer to- 
 gether now than ever before. In the tranquil twilight, 
 after his hard day's work in tlie tunnel, he often hinted 
 at vague bits of his own life ; of a wife left behind, of a 
 little baby-boy m the cradle. Ah, yes ! he would see 
 that baby sometimes, " when he struck it in the tun- 
 nel," the old man woukl say, with a sigh, at the end of 
 his story, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe. 
 
 He seemed to think he would still find that baby in its 
 cradle. Years and years had passed, but still it was only 
 a baby to him. And why had he not returned ? "Why 
 had nearly a hundred thousand men in those mountains 
 never returned ? 
 
 He told her of a promise made his wife at marriage. 
 It w^as that each should on Christmas Eve sing a certain 
 song, and so think of the other. No matter where they 
 were or what transpired, they would each^ at the 
 moment of midnight, begin this song. 
 
 This explained to the girl why the old man had at the 
 very first tauglit and made her sing a certain old song on 
 Christmas Eve. And now she, too, became confidential, 
 and began to tell a story of the desert, of murder, and 
 scenes too terrible to dwell upon. But when the old 
 man looked at her sceptically, and shook his head, she 
 stopped and said, '' Perhaps, after all, it was only a 
 dream," and never mentioned it again. 
 
 And so the first few months after the return from the 
 Reservation were very tranquil — calmer, higher, holier 
 than any of the former days. 
 
 But this did not last. The man must go to town to 
 get his pick sharpened and his drills hardened. The re- 
 sult is easily guessed. He fell into his old ways. Soon 
 Carrie was seen once more among the rough men late at 
 night, helping, coaxing, comforting the tottering old 
 
36 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 man, and trying to get him back to the cabin. Then the 
 hard and heartless ones began again to banter and bully 
 her ; and as of old, when but a child, she answered back, 
 and often ga^e as much as she received. She, too, w^as 
 fast falling back to something harder than her hard life 
 before. 
 
 Dosson and Emens watched every word and action of 
 " '49." They v/ere still certain that he was a miser, 
 with hundreds of ounces of hoarded gold, and they drove 
 their tunnel on their side of the ridge straight for the 
 centre with all the force and energ}^ that their strong 
 arms could command. Soon '' '49" came to know^ of 
 this. He was almost wild with rage. Then he wept 
 like a child. 
 
 '' Only to think ! After nearly twenty-five years !" he 
 said to Carrie. Then ]ie v/ent on a protracted spree, 
 from which tlie girl reclaimed him only after a long and 
 patient effort. 
 
 Dosson and Emens were now men of importance in 
 the camp. They had opened a grocery and gambling- 
 saloon. This soon w\as the headquarters of the camp, 
 and all the miners gathered together and gambled here. 
 
 And "'49" came here also. Yet between himself 
 and Dosson and Emens there was at best only an armed 
 neutrality. Old Colonel Billy, the bosom-friend of 
 " '49" in all his unhappy carousals, was accustomed to 
 shake his head and say, solemnly, that some one would 
 " die with his boots on" yet, and that it would not be 
 " '49." 
 
 And who was Colonel Billy ? A man who had never 
 been known to refuse a drink in his life — a true Cali- 
 fornian. He was also a very old and a very rickety 
 man. He had once been a great lawyer, and had pulled 
 many of the boys through after one of their periodical 
 
li?" SIERRA. 37 
 
 rows. But Colorxel Billy had come in tlie spring of '50, 
 and so stood only as a sort of "lieutenant to this old 
 veteran general who had come in the fall of '49. 
 
 But perhaps these are distinctions that only Cali- 
 fornians can understand. 
 
 How these two old men loved each other ! Was it 
 because they had nothing else to love ? Was it because 
 the world had gone on by the other way and left them 
 standing here alone like two storm-blown pines on a 
 windy hill, that they leaned toward each other ? 1 do 
 not know ; but I like to see the love of old men. Like 
 to see it ? 1 revere it. ' It is the tenderness and the 
 holiness of a Sabbath sunset. 
 
 Dosson and Emens, as 1 have said, worked in their 
 tunnel by day. By night they looked after their drink- 
 ing and gambling den. They did everything to make it 
 popular for "the boys," and they got monstrous old 
 " Mississip" to deal faro for them. 
 
 This old woman's daughter was almost as coarse and 
 heartless as her wretched old mother. " And that is put- 
 ting it pretty hard on Belle ^ Sip,' " said Colonel Billy. 
 
 Sometimes they had dancing in this '^Deadfall." 
 "Women were scarce ; and, indeed, it was impossible to 
 get decent women to enter here. And so it was that 
 Carrie was persuaded, almost pressed, into service. She 
 danced well, and to the miners no evening seemed com- 
 plete without her. 
 
 Gradually but certainlj^ this little creature was sinking 
 down into the mud and the slime from which '^ '49" had 
 rescued her, and no hand reached out to hold her back. 
 Kow and then Dosson gave her a piece of money. He 
 did not know that this went to buy bread for the old 
 man, every cent of it, while she had not clothes to keep 
 her from shame ; but so it was. 
 
CHAPTER y. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 How stranger the half-hidden story ! 
 How fairer the far stars of heaven 
 When seen through the clouds, tempest-driven. 
 
 With storms streaming over their glor^"- ! 
 
 The events that follow were sudden and rapid in their 
 changes. This makes them necessarily fragmentary, for 
 1 was not a witness of all. And so it is that I prefer to 
 leave some things to the imagination of the reader rather 
 than to draw npon my own. 
 
 It is a matter of record that one of the old French 
 families of St. Louis — Creoles — was in that unfortunate 
 train of emigrants who were set upon and slaughtered by 
 the Danites, or Mormons and Indians, in what is known 
 to the world as the Mountain Meadow Massacre. 
 
 At that time this family owned a piece of land on the 
 outskirts of St. Louis. It was almost worthless then ; 
 but in years it came to be of prodigious value, and. eager 
 search was made for the heirs. 
 
 The story ran, that out of the many children who 
 escaj^ed massacre, the dark, low-browed Belle '' Sip,-' of 
 Sierra, could be named as the heir. 
 
 Of course, this was only a vague rumor. But it was 
 enough to inspire Gar Dosson — who had even made 
 advances toward poor, ragged Carrie— with a singular 
 regard for the dark, Creole-looking girl, and he paid 
 eager court to her accordingly. Yet at the same time he 
 
A FllAGMENT. 39 
 
 loved — If lie was capable of love — tlie wild and wily 
 little girl of the woods far better than he did the low- 
 browed and sullen Belle. And Belle knew it, too — for 
 women liav^e a singularly direct way of going to the truth 
 of such things — and so she hated and abused the little 
 child-woman bitterly. 
 
 Meantime, in St. Louis, Judge Snowe, an old and able 
 lawyer, was at work. He had suddenly become informed 
 of the presence of this girl Belle, in Sierra, and was now 
 about to send, with all speed possible, a young and eji- 
 terprising confidential friend to find her out and inform 
 her of her ^^ossible fortune and position in the world. 
 
 The young man, the confidential friend, Charles 
 Devine, was the son of a widow (a California widow, so 
 called ; for her husband had gone to California, and had 
 never been heard from afterward), and a bright young 
 man, too, in some things. Yet, perhaps, he had in most 
 things more heart than head. His mother, a pious 
 gentlewoman, had a nameless terror of California ; for 
 had her husband not perished there ? Hence she could 
 not think of letting her son go on this expedition. But 
 go he must, and so he had decided to leave without her 
 knowledge of his destination. 
 
 On the evening fixed by the good-hearted though 
 gruff old lawyer for his secretary's departure, a gayly- 
 dressed young man entered the widow's humble home 
 and asked to see her. 
 
 The door had been opened by a wdiite-headed old 
 negro, who lingered about and lifted his nose high in the 
 air whenever he came near the 3^oung man, as if he 
 sniffed some unusual odor. 
 
 This modern youth of fashion was the fast friend of 
 Charles Devine, whom he supposed had just set out 
 on his hurried visit to the heart of the Sierras. And 
 
40 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 fast friend he was, too, in more senses tlian one. For 
 the high boot-heels of Thomas Giillj were often none too 
 certain in their tread. He was now engaged in rolling a 
 cigar between his thumb and finger, and fumbling in his 
 pocket for a match. The old negro lolled about, wagged 
 his woolly head, and put np his hands in silent protest. 
 
 '' Where's yom* missus, Sam ?" asked the visitor. 
 
 '' Gone to prayer-meetin', sah. ^' 
 
 " Gone to prayer-meeting, eh ? Well, reckon I'll 
 wait till she gets back. Here' s a half dollar. Bring me 
 a match. ' ' 
 
 The negro twisted, and hobbled about, and finally said, 
 with hesitation : 
 
 *' Gemmen don't smoke in a lady's parlor, sah." 
 
 The man merely smiled as he handed the servant his 
 shining hat, after finding a match in his vest pocket 
 and lighting it. Money had been appropriated at the 
 Bank. He had come to accuse his fellov/-clerk, the 
 widow's son, and save himself, now that Devine was gone. 
 
 He puffed his cigar almost to a blaze, threw himself 
 into a chair, and flung his legs almost as high as his 
 head, laying them across the corner of the table and on 
 the old family Bible. 
 
 The negro snatched the book away, almost upsetting 
 the visitor in doing so. 
 
 ^' Want to make it more comfortable for your legs ; 
 thought de Bible might hurt your legs," observed the 
 old negro, as he dodged a hymn-book and limped out of 
 the room. As Gully sat arranging his faultless attire, 
 Mr. Snowe, with Sam at his heels, entered the parlor. 
 The old lawyer laid down his bag, and kept on talking 
 to the negro. 
 
 " J^ot here, Sam ? Why, he promised to meet me 
 here ; promised to be at home here, waiting for me." 
 
A FRAGMENT. 41 
 
 *^ That old fox here ?" muttered Gully, over his 
 shoulder. " 1 feel like jumping through tlie window." 
 
 Again the old negro began to limp and stutter. 
 
 *' I'm very sorry, Massa Snowe. But he is not here. 
 P'r'aps dat gemmen," pointing to Gully, '' know whar 
 he is, Massa Snowe. He goes with ' im a good bit. Lor', 
 1 wish he war a gemmen," and he limped away. 
 
 '' Ah, good-evening, Judge Snowe, good-evening. 
 So delighted to see you," said the man of faultless ap- 
 parel. '^ Yes, Charley has gone — gone suddenly to 
 California. He could not bear to say good-by to his 
 mother, so he sent me, you know, to say good-by for 
 him." 
 
 The old lawyer picked up his bag and came toward his 
 informant, grulf and crabbed. ^' But he has not gone. 
 Only to-day he promised to meet me here, and he will 
 be here." 
 
 ^' He will not be here. 1 saw liim to the depot my- 
 self." As Gully spoke, Charley Devine, singing 
 snatches of songs, entered the parlor. 
 
 ^'r(?2^ back?' 'cried Gully. 
 
 *'Back again, like a bad penny," laughed Devine. 
 " You see. Gully — you see, I was waiting there at the 
 depot — hie — such a crowd ! Well, while 1 was waiting 
 there, 1 saw the game going on. All down ! Down 
 your bets ! Monte ! Faro ! Roulette ! Forty to one 
 on the eagle-bird. Forty to one on the eagle-bird at 
 roulette !" 
 
 At this Gully began to be interested. Devine did not 
 as yet perceive Mr. Snowe. 
 
 '' Well, well ?" cried Gully, eagerly. 
 
 ^' Foity to one on the eagle- bird, just think of it ! 
 Forty times five hundred — twenty thousand dollars — and 
 you in with me, you know." 
 
42 '40, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIEKRAS. 
 
 '' Why, lie has won twenty thousand dollars," thought 
 Gully. " A fool for luck ! By the holy poker, that 
 will jnst make np the loss of the bank. We were both 
 in together, you know, Charley," he eagerly added, 
 aloud. 
 
 '^ Yes, both in together, you know. Well, I just took 
 my five hundred dollars in my list and I marched straight 
 up to that table, and 1 planked her down on the eagle- 
 bird — every cent — and cried, ' Roll, roll ! Turn, turn, 
 turn ! Five hundred dollars on the eagle-bird ! Twenty 
 thousand dollars or nothing ! Turn, turn, turn ! ' " 
 
 "Well, well?" 
 
 '' Five hundred dollars on the eagle-bird ! Twenty 
 thousand dollars or nothing ! Turn, turn, turn !" 
 
 '' Well, well?" 
 
 " And he turned, you know, and — " 
 
 "And, and—?" 
 
 " And the eagle-bird lost !" 
 
 " Oh, the fool !" growled Gully. " Oh, the reckless, 
 drunken gambler !" 
 
 The old lawyer, now approaching Charley and putting 
 his hand on his shoulder in a kind, fatherly fashion, 
 said : 
 
 " Charley, Charley, j^ou are drinking again. You 
 will break your old mother's heart !" The old lawyer 
 with all his roughness had a tender heart, and again and 
 again had forgiven and restored Charley when he had 
 " fallen a victim to his only failing." " I will save him 
 yet, there is good stuff in him." 
 
 " My mother !" exclaimed Devine, in a startled tone. 
 " Don't say a word to her ! I — I — 1 will reform now." 
 
 " Well, well, Charley," said Snowe, taking the young 
 man's hand, " you have promised me that before and I 
 have trusted you. 1 trust you again. Maybe I am a fool 
 
A FRAGMENT. 43 
 
 for doing so. Prove tlmt I am not. I must trust you 
 now. About this business of mine. Come, be sober ; 
 be a man. You promised to start on this business this 
 very niglit. You are tlie only man that understands the 
 case. You are the only man 1 can trust. Can you go ? 
 Are you fit to go % Do you remember what you have to 
 do ?'' 
 
 Charley Devine nervously passed his hand across his 
 face. 
 
 ''Why, of course, I do. A girl — a child of one of 
 the wealthy old Creole families — a lost girl that old black 
 Sam had charge of — one of the orphans of the Mountain 
 Meadow Massacre — now an heiress — a great estate wait- 
 ing for her. And you think you have a clew — you think 
 she is in the mountains near Sierra." 
 
 Tom Gully listened intently. 
 
 " An heiress — a lost girl in the mountains ! An 
 heiress !" 
 
 " 1 am to go and search for her. My salary you are 
 to hand over to my mother till I return," said Charley, 
 finally. 
 
 " Right, my boy !" exclaimed Snowe ; " and now you 
 must be off. Here is more money ; now do not play the 
 fool again and lose it. Sam !" 
 
 " Yes, Massa Snowe." 
 
 " You are sure you would know that child still ?" 
 
 *' Sure, Massa Snowe, sure ! I would know dat chile 
 — why, I would know dat chile in — Jerusalem ! Why, 
 Massa Snowe, she'd know dis ole black face, sure ! 
 She'd come right up to dis ole cripple now." 
 
 "Ah, but you must remember it is now more than 
 twelve years since the Mormons and Indians murdered 
 lier parents and took her from your arms on the plains, 
 and she was scarcely six years old at the time." 
 
44 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERllAS. 
 
 ''But I'd know her, sure! And she — she'd know 
 dis ole black face. Dar ain't many of my kind, Massa 
 Snowe, up in dem white mountains ; an' den, oh, Massa 
 Snowe, she'd know my songs ! She'd fly to me like a 
 
 bird, she v/ould !' ' 
 
 " Your songs !" exclaimed the lawyer, thoughtfully ; 
 '' did you sing much to her, Sam ?" 
 
 '' Allers, allers, on dem ole plains, Massa Snowe. 
 Why, she knowed my songs, every one ; she'd sing a 
 vus an' den I'd sing a vus ; and you see, if she hear me 
 sing now, she'd come a runnin' right to me — 'fore God 
 she would, Massa Snowe !' ' 
 
 '' That will do, Sam. Now, Charley, you must be 
 off, and at once ! Mind, they are trying to impose a 
 false claimant on us, and it's hard to disprove their 
 claims. But this old negro's evidence will be conviction 
 strong as Holy Writ. Now, Sam, you can go ; and 
 remember, if this girl is found, your fortune is made." 
 
 '' I don't v/ant no fortune, Massa Snowe. I wants to 
 see dat chile once before I dies — poor, poor baby in de 
 mountains." 
 
 The old negro, with his sleeve to his eyes, had hobbled 
 back to the door and was disappearing, when the lawyer 
 looked up from the papers he had taken from the bag 
 and spoke : 
 
 '' I say, Sam, do you think there are any marks by 
 which she can certainly be identified ? Listen to this, 
 Charley. Give your special attention to this." 
 
 The negro stopped and threw up his hands. Then he 
 came back and stood before the lawyer, who began to 
 write as the old cripple began to talk, 
 
 " Marks ? Marks, Mcissa Snowe ? Marks dat she will 
 take wid her to her coffin ! Yes ! Why, dar come de 
 Mormons, painted red, and liowliii', and a-choppin' an' 
 
A FRAGMENT. 45 
 
 a-sliootin', an' a-stabbin'. Oh, Massa Snowe, it makes 
 me sorry ; it makes me sick to t'ink of it. A whole 
 heap of women and babies heaped togedder in de grass 
 and dusty road, dead. And den dis httle gal a-nestlin' 
 np to me, a-hidin' in ole Sam's busum when I lay like 
 dead in de grass. And den Avhen all was still, an' de 
 Mormons came up friendly like, she crept out, an' de 
 blood was a-runnin' down her arm ; den dey took her off 
 and away from her ole black Sam ; an' all her folks was 
 dead ; and dere was a great bloody gash, dar !" 
 
 The old negro was almost wild with excitement as he 
 told this, and pointed on his arm to the place of the 
 wound. Then he hobbled back to the door, and out, as 
 he wagged his head and said, as to himself : 
 
 '^ Know her ? Know dat chile ? I'd know dat chile 
 in Jerusalem, I would !" 
 
 "That, Charley, is the child you are to find," ob- 
 served Snowe. " A large tract of land on which a city 
 has since been built was the property of her parents at 
 the time of the massacre, and she is the sole heiress. Of 
 course there are many pretenders to this fortune ; but 
 this 1 know is the real heiress, and I am quite certain, 
 from what I heard last week, she has drifted into the 
 mines of California, and can be found there. I have 
 gone over this pretty often, Charley, and now I'm done 
 with it," said the old lawyer, as he arranged his papers, 
 sealing them with red sealing-wax. 
 
 " 1 see a point ! It's the biggest thing out — a mine 
 of gold — a regular bonanza mine to anymanwdio has the 
 nerve to work it," said Gully to himself. 
 
 ''Charley," observed the lawyer, ''one word more. 
 You see, in the great Mountain Meadow Massacre, the 
 Indians, led by the Danites, killed all except the chil- 
 dren. The little orphans, forty or fifty in number, w^ere 
 
4G '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 taken up by the Mormons and Indians, and in a few 
 years were almost forgotten. 1 have sent agents search- 
 ing everywhere and questioning abont every one 1 could 
 hear of, but hitherto 1 have been always disappointed. 
 But now 1 have a new hope, and with care it shall be- 
 come a reality." He stopped talking here, paused a 
 moment, and said : " It is a beautiful and very strange 
 superstition of the Indians, that they mnst not kill a 
 negro. An Indian of the Plains will not kill a negro. 
 In this case, they spared old Sam only because he was 
 black. I have the greatest possible hope ; for if the 
 child can remember anything at all, she can remember 
 old black Sam. Charley, it shall be your task to find 
 her." 
 
 ^'A delightful task!" cried Charley. '' I shall so 
 like to get out and up into the mountains, into the heart of 
 the Sierras. Such scenery ! Such air ! The smell of 
 the fir and tamarack ! An' I shall reform there." 
 
 The old lawyer turned, took the lad's hand, and, look- 
 ing him long and earnestly in the face, as he had often 
 done before this, shook his hand cordially : " And now, 
 Charley, you are to go directly to Sierra, and sit dov^n 
 there quietly in the heart of the mountains. Get all the 
 information you can about her ; get acquainted with her 
 quietly ; get her confidence ; find out what she remem- 
 bers of the old negro, and all ; and when you are con- 
 vinced that she is really the heiress, I will come with 
 black Sam to satisfy the law that we have made no mis- 
 take. Come, it's just the enterprise for a man of nerve 
 and heart. And you really don't need much head for 
 this, you know," and the lawyer langhed good- 
 naturedly. " All you want is heart." And in an 
 envelope he laid the papers on the table. 
 
 *' You say she's very rich ?" observed Charley. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 47 
 
 " The ricliest girl, perhaps, in California. A city has 
 been built on her land ; there is no computing her 
 wealth." 
 
 Gully's eyes feasted for a moment on the papers. It 
 was a hungry stare — a stare that was held in fascination. 
 
 " You can goat once," said the lawyer. 
 
 ^' The biggest thing in America ! Go ! I see a fortune 
 in it — a fortune, do you hear ? Go, find this girl. Find 
 her, woo her, win her, marry her ! And don't let her 
 know she is an heiress until it's all over," suddenly 
 exclaimed Gully. 
 
 The lawyer started. '' A friend of yours, Charley ?" 
 
 " His oldest and best," said Gully ; then confidentially 
 to Charley : '^ Woo her, win her, wed her before she 
 knows anything about her good fortune ! Charley, I 
 congratulate you ! i say that is the biggest thing in 
 xlmerica ! Go ! Do as I tell you ; but be sure you take 
 plenty of perfumery. Few women can reason, but all 
 women can smell. Take plenty of perfumery." 
 
 As he spoke Mrs. Devine entered. She cast a be- 
 wildered sort of glance around, her eyes resting on her 
 embarrassed son as he said : 
 
 " Oh, mother ; I am so sad, yet so glad you have come 
 before I start for the Sierras." 
 
 '^ The Sierras ! Charley," she gasped. " I thought, I 
 thought—' ' 
 
 At this moment, Gully, who had been watching for 
 an opportunity, adroitly exchanged the contents of the 
 envelope by substituting some worthless papers which 
 were in his own pocket. 
 
 ^' Yes, mother 1 — I did not want to tell you myself, 
 but now I must. I go to California to-night." 
 
 '' No, no ! Not there ! Not to that place, of all 
 places in the world. Not there — not there, I implore 
 
48 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 yon." And the woman clung to lier boy as if slie 
 would hold him back from some dreadful abyss. 
 
 Gully sealed and handed Charley the package. In so 
 natural and matter-of-fact a way was this done that even 
 the shrewd old lawyer suspected nothing wrong. Gully 
 was an expert in low villainy. 
 
 ^'Mother,! must go," said the lad. '^ There is no 
 avoiding it. I must go to-night — now ! Why should 
 you have such a horror of California ?" 
 
 ^' My son, hear me," cried the anxious mother, as she 
 drew her boy to her side. "Your father is buried 
 there." 
 
 " Mother, I will find my father's grave." 
 
 '^ Only time to catch dat train, Massa Charles," called 
 out the negro. 
 
 Then Charley, after one prolonged embrace, tore liim- 
 self from his mother's arms, and disappeared. 
 
 The gruff old lawyer was seized with a cough, and 
 used a handkerchief to his eyes, as the poor woman bowed 
 her head, weeping as if her heart would break. The 
 handsome and dashing Tom Gully, hastily thrusting the 
 package of papers deeper into the breast of his broadcloth 
 coat, took his departure, chuckling wickedly as he strode 
 through the dark to the depot. '' Fool ! Go on your 
 fool's errand ; but you will find the bird flown, for I 
 shall be there before you, if my wits serve me rightly. 
 You are not Tom Gully's match in winning the heart of 
 a girl." 
 
CHAPTER YI. 
 
 *^JUST ONE LITTLE SONG, LOVE." 
 
 Then sing the song we loved, love, 
 
 When all life seemed one song ; 
 For life is none too long, love ; 
 
 Ah, love is none too long. 
 
 And when above my grave, love, 
 Some day the grass grows strong, 
 
 Then sing the song we loved, love ; 
 Love, just that one sweet song. 
 
 So when they bid you sing, love, 
 
 And thrill the joyous throng. 
 Then sing the song we loved, love ; 
 
 Love, just that one sweet song. 
 
 This is the little melody whicli old ^' '49" had taught 
 Carrie to sing in concert with himself every Christmas 
 Eve. This is the song that he and his far-away wife had 
 agreed to sing together at the hour of midnight, tliough 
 seas and continents divided them. And he, for his part, 
 had kept his promise for nearly a quarter of a century. 
 He could not know how she had kept hers. He only 
 knew that he was gray and old and broken now, and 
 the sad refrain took on a deeper meaning each year as he 
 drew nearer to the grave. 
 
 " For life is none too long, love ; 
 Ah, love is none too long." 
 
 And yet he still dreamed of the waiting young wife at 
 the door of his Western cabin home ; sa\y more clearly. 
 
50 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 it seemed, than ever before, the little boy-baby crowing 
 and tossing its arras in the cradle ; still fondly dreamed 
 from day to day, from year to year, that he would strike 
 gold yet, and return and take them to his heart. 
 
 So the old man struggled on, hoping he would strike 
 it yet in that damp, dripping old tunnel. He could not 
 work so hard now ; and more than once these three — the 
 old man, Carrie, and the great bony, slobber-mouthed 
 dog — were out of bread. And when they had nothing 
 to eat, old '' '49" was only too apt, by hook or crook, to 
 have something to drink. 
 
 It was this wretched poverty, as we have seen, which 
 drove Carrie to singing and dancing once more for the 
 miners. This took her to Dosson's saloon, and well- 
 nigh kept her there, where she had to put up with all 
 the insults of Old Mississip and endure the sneers and 
 insolence of the reputed heiress, her so-called daughter. 
 
 It was about this time that Charles Devine first came 
 to this camp. He had not come directly to Sierra, as 
 the old lawyer had desired. The grief of his mother at 
 their separation made such a profound impression on him 
 that he had resolved first to find his father's grave, if 
 possible ; or at least some trace of his life or death in the 
 mines of California. 
 
 By persistent search he found that he had set out for 
 this same mining camj^ many and many years ago, 
 had entered it, and, so far as he could learn, had never 
 left it. 
 
 On the brow of the hill looking down from the dusty 
 stage road through the dense pines he met two w^orn and 
 bearded miners in shirts and boots. Shirts and boots 
 and beards seemed to be about all that was visible of 
 them, while they had their blanket, picks, pans, and 
 kettles on their backs. 
 
'*JUST ONE LITTLE SONG, LOVE." 51 
 
 He stopped these prospectors long enough to inquire 
 if they knew a Mr. Devine in that camp. And while 
 they stood staring at him from behind their beards, he 
 proceeded to tell how, many years before, Devine had 
 come into that camp — a tall, handsome gentleman — and 
 never was heard of afterward. 
 
 The two men exchanged glances. Then the elder of 
 the two took him by the sleeve, led him to the edge of 
 the road, and bending a little to look nnder the hanging 
 boughs, pointed with his brown and hairy right hand 
 away down toward the mouth of the canon to two little 
 white spots by the side of a great dead oak on a little 
 rocky ridge, and said : 
 
 '' Stranger, thar's two strangers' graves." 
 
 Seeing how this had moved the young man, the 
 younger of the two thought to say something kindly ; 
 and as they hoisted their packs a little higher on their 
 backs and set their faces up the hill, he said back over 
 his shoulder, as they climbed up the steep road : 
 
 " Yes, them two came to this camp and never left it ; 
 two tall, handsome fellows, years and years ago." 
 
 " What's their names ?" 
 
 ''J^obody never knowed, stranger. But everybody 
 was powerful sorry for 'em ; they died under that dead 
 tree ; and one was a-holdin' of the other one's head, 
 as if to sort o' help him, like." 
 
 That night, some drunken miners passing up the trail 
 below the two graves were certain they saw a strange 
 figure moving about on the rocky ridge ; and so they 
 Rtepped high and hurriedly on their way. 
 
 '^ '49," looking out of that low little window, also 
 beheld something that night. But he did not mention 
 the circumstance to any one. In fact, he saw the object 
 but dimly, for his eyes were old and weak now. And 
 
52 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 then the trees^ at last after so many years, were grov7- 
 ing np between his window and these two ghastly white 
 graves that had so haunted him all these years. He was 
 glad of this. Oh, he was so glad ! 
 
 He had always felt that, so long as two bald w^liite 
 graves kept watch there at the mouth of the canon, he 
 could never pass out of it to the civilized world beyond. 
 These graves were as the tops of two mighty pillars of a 
 great gate that shut him up in prison forever. 
 
 But now nature had come to help and comfort him. 
 The oak was dead ; but a growth of j)ine, as is always 
 the case on the California foothills, was taking the jDlace 
 of the departed oak. They would soon hide these two 
 glaring graves utterly now at last. 
 
 This man, w^ith his morbid memories, felt that he 
 could breathe more freely, stand up straighter, step more 
 firmly w^hen these two graves that had lain there, in 
 moon or sun, storm or shine, for fully twenty years, 
 should be hidden forever in the green foliage of the 
 pines. 
 
 TJie next day young Devine, after a night of watch- 
 ing and prayer on the rocky ridge by the two nameless 
 graves, resolved that with the approach of evening he 
 would enter the saloon where Belle was to be found, and 
 forthwith make his mission known. 
 
 He dressed himself with care ; for, in addition to being 
 always elegant in his apparel, he felt somehow that he 
 ought to approach this young girl with every considera- 
 tion and token of respect. 
 
 It is just possible, too, that there might have been at 
 that time a vague idea that it would be best for him to 
 win this wealthy girl's heart, lift her to his position in 
 life, and at the same time secure his own fortune, as 
 Gully had advised. Who can guess what were his 
 
''JUST ONE LITTLE SONG, LOVE." 53 
 
 tliouglits, with the picture of his dead father running 
 counter-current through his brain, as he approached the 
 saloon on that memorable night ? 
 
 A motley crowd it was that he found there, loud and 
 coarse and vulgar ; not at all like the men of the olden 
 days of gold. He wore a tall silk hat— a dangerous 
 thing for a stranger to do on entering a mining camp. 
 Men stared at him. They were not absolutely uncivil, 
 but they certainly held him in great contempt from the 
 moment they set eyes on his hat. He wished to speak 
 to some one, and seem sociable. Still thinking of his 
 father with tenderness, and seeing old Colonel Billy, with 
 his battered hat on his left eye, he accosted him, and 
 asked if he ever heard of a Mr. Devine who came to 
 California in '49. 
 
 " A Mr. Devine ? A Mr. Devine ? "Was he a gos- 
 pel sharp ? A hymn-howler ? Ho offence, 1 hope. 
 Thought he might a' been, you know, from the name," 
 said Colonel Billy. 
 
 " ^o, no offence," said the young man, relaxing the 
 fist that half doubled as the colonel spoke. 
 
 '' Did you ever know a man by the name of Devine ?" 
 he asked of a tall, bony old man who stood on the edge 
 of the crowd, and who swayed like a leafless pine that 
 had died and refused to fall. 
 
 The old dead pine stopped swaying a moment, and 
 answered: ^^ Devine ? Devine? Any relation to — ?" 
 and the bewildered old man lifted his head heavenward in 
 dazed and helpless inquiry. Then shaking his head he 
 was blown back into the crowd, while a sympathetic knot 
 of old miners looked at the young man and shook their 
 grizzly heads, but did not answer. 
 
 '^ Looking for a needle in a haystack, young man. If 
 that was his name, it's just the best of a reason that it 
 
54 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 ain't his name now. You see we baptize 'em over and 
 give 'em new names, titles, and sich, when they come to 
 Californj," observed a man with a mashed nose and a 
 short leg. 
 
 There was a rustle of silk at that moment, while a 
 murmur of admiration ran through the crowd. Old 
 Mississip, with her daughter, the dark, low-browed 
 Creole girl, entered and took their places at the faro- 
 table. 
 
 This girl was supposed to belong to one of the oldest 
 and most aristocratic families of the South-west. It was 
 a moment of intense interest to Devine. 
 
 '' And why is this young lady called Belle Sippy ?" 
 he asked of the short man, with the mashed nose. 
 
 *' Don't know, 'cept it's 'cause her mother's name is 
 Mississip." 
 
 The man limped away from this stranger, who seemed 
 to be a walking interrogation point, and over his 
 shoulder referred him to Colonel Billy ; and Colonel 
 Billy, holding on to the bar lest the floor might move 
 from imder his feet if he attempted to stand still, re- 
 ferred him to old " '49." 
 
 ^' He's been here since these hills was a hole in the 
 ground ; and what he don't know about anybody ain't 
 v/orth knowin', stranger. Ask him when he comes ; 
 he'll be here in this 'ere saloon with Carrots, by and 
 by,' ' contimied Colonel Billy. Then spitting cotton and 
 making many signs of being very dry, he went on : 
 " But it's my opinion, as a lawyer — my professional 
 opinion — that she's no more her daughter than I am." 
 And he nodded to Belle. The old colonel blinked and 
 blinked as he spoke, and at the end of his speech looked 
 at the young man as if seeking to find a name for him. 
 He looked first at his feet, then up and up till he saw 
 
'-JUST ONE LITTLE SONG, LOVE." 55 
 
 his hat. Tlien with a laugh he blurted out, ^' No more 
 her daughter than I am, Mr. Beaver." 
 
 " By Gol !'' chimed in a capper, '^ a dandy come to 
 town !" as he looked np from the game, over his 
 shoulder, at the stranger. 
 
 *' Dandy Beaver ! Gentlemen, Mr. Dandy Beaver !" 
 said the colonel, setting his white hat on his head. 
 
 *' Dand}^ Beaver ! Down your bets. Dandy Beaver," 
 shouted the dealer, as he gayly tossed his cards ; and the 
 man, looking straight at the newcomer, leaned forward 
 and playfully tapped the cheek of the girl. 
 
 " And in such a place as this, and with such people ! 
 What hideous familiarity ?" Devine fairly caught his 
 breath and fell back amazed at tlie audacity of Dosson, 
 as he touched the girl's cheek. 
 
 *'A11 down! The game's made! Koll !" Again 
 the coin clinked, the cards flew in the air, and the pretty 
 Spanish women and gayly-dressed Mexicans smoked their 
 cigarettes and played with desperate intent. Such scenes 
 as this are common enough in mining towns to this day. 
 
 '' But where's Carrie ?" exclaimed old Colonel Billy. 
 *^I didn't come here to gamble and drink. 1 came 
 here to see Carrie and hear her sing. Now, where is 
 Carrie ? That's what 1 want to know." 
 
 '' And who is this Carrie ?" queried Devine, who was 
 anxious to introduce himself to the notice of Belle. 
 
 '' Oh, she's a wretched, ragged thing, that hain't got 
 a cent," was Belle's reply, accompanied by a contempt- 
 uous toss of the head. 
 
 ''Got no father, got no mother, got nothin'," said 
 Mississip, savagely. 
 
 The game had stopped. There was a storm outside. 
 Perhaps these people were wondering where that child 
 was. It was an awkward pause after the woman spoke 
 
56 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OE THE SIERRAS. 
 
 60 bitterly. The people began to roll cigarettes and fall 
 back and gather in gronps about the saloon. 
 
 " That's a 'Frisco chap," observed Dossoii. 
 
 "Take a drink, mister?" said the woman, pointing 
 to the bar. 
 
 '' No, thank yoii, 1 don't drink.'' . 
 
 "Don't drink! Well (hie) he's not from 'Frisco," 
 hiccoughed Colonel Billy. 
 
 " You are the proprietor of the — of the City Hotel ?" 
 said Devine, civilly, as he approached nearer, endeav- 
 oring to be courteous. 
 
 " 1 am the proprietor of the City Tavern, the only 
 hotel; and 1 lets the rooms, bet your sweet life," re- 
 plied the virago. 
 
 " Rooms ! — (hie) — rooms ! Rooms not quite big 
 enough for bedrooms (hie), and a little too big for 
 coffins," said Colonel Billy. 
 
 " Can 1 spend the evening in the hotel ?" 
 
 " Certain, certain ! That's what this 'ere hotel was 
 fitted up for. You see in the Sierras we likes to be as 
 comfortable and as nice as in 'Frisco. But this parlor is 
 used for a good many things, l^ow, this is the parlor 
 of the City Tavern. This is the ladies' sittin'-room." 
 Here a Spanish lady bowed. " This is the gentle- 
 men's sitting-room." Here Colonel Billy bowed pro- 
 foundly, adding, "It's the eatin' house, and it's the dead- 
 house." 
 
 "Head-house?" 
 
 " Ay, dead-house." 
 
 " Eight there ; I've seed seven of us laid out to stiffen 
 on that 'ere table," said Colonel Billy, looking grim and 
 ghastly at the recollection. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but what's the use of a killin' of men in 
 the house. It always interferes with the game. If you 
 
JUST ONE LITTLE SOKG, LOYE. 
 
 57 
 
 wants to kill 'em, kill 'em outside. Down yom^ bets ! 
 All down ! Try your luck, mister ? There's the ace of 
 diamonds, as pretty a card as ever held a twenty-dollar 
 piece." 
 
CHAPTEK Yll. 
 
 '^i'm a total wkeck." 
 
 We are wreck and stray, we are cast away, 
 
 Poor, battered old hulks and spars, 
 But we hope and pray, on the Judgment Day, 
 
 We will strike it, up there in the stars. 
 Though battered and old, our hearts are bold, 
 Yet oft do we repine 
 For the days of old. 
 For the days of gold — 
 For the days of Forty-nine. 
 
 '^ All down ! Down your bets ! The game is made ! 
 Eoll !" roared Mississip, as slie sat at the faro-table 
 flourishing a card over her head. 
 
 " Mississip, where is Carrots ? I didn't come here to 
 gamble and get drunk. 1 came to see lier and (hie) hear 
 her sing,' ' said Colonel Billy, as he spread both his broad 
 hands on the table and leaned on them heavily, empha- 
 sizing his former question. 
 
 "Where's Carrots? Out with old ' '49,' when she 
 ought to be here at work. Roll !" Colonel Billy 
 tottered away, muttering over his shoulder aside to the 
 miners, " 1 tell you, boys, we ought to do somethin' 
 for that little gal, even if she is a saucy imp, and all 
 that. Old ''49' can't keep her any more. You all 
 think he's rich, eh ? Think he's got a mountain of gold 
 (hie), eh ? Well, boys, he's got somethin' dearer than 
 gold away back yonder in the States — a wife and a baby. 
 Why, if he had money he wouldn't stay here a minute. 
 
59 
 
 No, lie's too poor to even feed Carrots. He's all busted 
 Tip, and about starvin' himself. That old tunnel. 
 Humph ! She has to go to sing and dance to get a bit 
 of bread. Total wreck, total wreck." And the red 
 nose of Colonel Billy, having ran its course about the 
 room like a comet in the heavens, came back to the bar, 
 whence it started, and entreated the barkeeper for a 
 drink. 
 
 Meantime, through a door by the bar, sauntered in the 
 best-dressed man in the Sierras. He was fragrant as an 
 apothecary's shop. His broad Calif orni an hat rested a 
 little on one side ; a pistol showed on his hip and a 
 bowie-knife in his belt. 
 
 Charles Devine started as at an apparition. It was 
 Gully — yes, Tom Gully. Tom a^^proached the girl 
 familiarly, and sat down at the card-table as if he owned 
 the place. The red comet completed another circle of 
 the den, and came back to the card-table. 
 
 '^ Oh, go 'way and don't bother the game." 
 
 ^' Put him out. Lucky Tom, put him out !" cried 
 Mississip. 
 
 " You had better order your coffin (hie) before you 
 try it. I'm one of the old 'uns, I am. Don't care if 
 you do carry a bowie. 1 came to this 'ere camp too early 
 in the mornin'. Why, yon only came here last month, 
 and you think you own the town. Put me out ! I 
 should radiate. Used them things for toothpicks in '49 
 and spring of '50," hiccoughed the colonel, as Gully laid 
 a hand on his bowie-knife. 
 
 '' Well, Colonel Billy, if he wants to put you out, he 
 will," piped in Belle, from the other side of the table. 
 
 " Your humble servant, miss, but he don't want to ; 
 he don't want to (hie) put me out," bowed the colonel, 
 politely. 
 
60 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 " No, no^ lie don't want to ; do you, dear ?" leered 
 the girl. 
 
 '' iNot if lie behaves himself, my darling," answered 
 Gully, with considerable familiarity. 
 
 ''Well, all 1 want to know is, Mississip, where' s Car- 
 rots, and why don't you pay her for singin' and dancin' 
 here well enough for her to get clothes like this one's ? 
 Carrots does all the work and Belle wears all the 
 clothes." 
 
 " Because Belle is a lady and Carrots is nothing but a 
 little saucy Injin, and don't deserve good clothes. And 
 now d'ye mind that ? The Injin!" cried Mississip. 
 
 ''Injin, Injin! Well, she's the whitest Injin 1 ever 
 seed. A red-headed Injin. Say (hie). Belle's blacker 
 than forty Carrots." 
 
 " Now you — " and with a fearful oath Gully was on 
 his feet, liis hand on his bowie. 
 
 " Why don't you pull it ? I want to see it ; hain't 
 seed a bowie since spring of '50. Bah, you coward !" 
 
 As the two stood glaring at each other, a voice was 
 heard above the storm outside — a feeble, piping voice, as 
 if some one was trying to sing and be merry under diffi- 
 culties. 
 
 " That's Carrots ! That's our Carrots, boys !" cried 
 the colonel. 
 
 " That hateful Carrots. The men all turn from me 
 to hear her sing. The hateful singecat. 1 despise 
 her !" muttered Belle. 
 
 "That's Carrots! That's Carrots; and old "49,' 
 my chum, ain't far off," chuckled Colonel Billy, as he 
 turned from Gully with contempt and indifference. 
 
 " 1 don't know what ' '49 ' sees in her," says Belle 
 spitefully to the comet, as in its orbit it passed by where 
 she sat. 
 
Gl 
 
 '^ Don't see what ' '49 ' sees in lier f Why, he sees 
 in her soul (hie), heart, humanity. She's the sunshine 
 of his Hfe. She's the champagne and cocktails of this 
 'ere camp, too." 
 
 And here entered Carrots, singing snatches of song, a 
 bow and arrows in her hand, her dress all torn, her hat 
 hanging by its strings over her shoulders, and her hair 
 unkempt. Flourishing her bow and arrows, she cried 
 out to Colonel BiJly : 
 
 ^' Knocked a chipmunk clean out of a pinetop. Colonel 
 Billy. Yes, I did ! Old ' '49 ' was with me up yonder. 
 Yes, and he's come home by his tunnel to give my 
 flowers to old sick Jack. Be here in a minute." 
 
 Mississip strode across the room toward tlie girl, and 
 the miners gave way before her. 
 
 '' She's broken up the game. Here !" And she 
 seized Carrots by the hair. 
 
 " Oh, oh ! Now, you jest let up ! Let down ! Let 
 go !" cried the girl. 
 
 '^ Give me that, and tell me where you've been !" 
 roared the virago. 
 
 '' Oh, please, Mississip ! Please let go my bow and 
 I'll never, never, never — " and here the girl slipped 
 from the clutches of the old monster, with her bow and 
 arrows still in her hand. Placing an arrow in her bow 
 quick as an Indian might, she drew it on Mississip : 
 ^^ You old hippopotamus ! Notion to knock you like I 
 did the chipmunk." 
 
 '' You imp ! You Injin !" cried Oully, from behind, 
 as he cuffed her and took the bow and arrows, and angrily 
 and hastily placed them out of her reach behind the bar. 
 
 " Now, you ever dare touch that bow and arrows 
 again — " began Mississip, but suddenly stopped, and 
 resumed her seat. Old '^ '49" had entered the room. 
 
62 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 '^ Well, Colonel Billy, old pard, how are you ?" 
 
 '^ Still spitting cotton," the Colonel replied. ''Dry, 
 very dry. Total wreck, and dry." 
 
 '' Dry ! Ha, ha ! Well, I ain't. That old tunnel 
 goes drip, drip, drip. I'm not dry. I hain't been dry 
 for nigh onto twenty years, Colonel Billy." 
 
 " Well, I've been dry for nigh onto a thousand years, 
 seems to me." 
 
 " Billy, you just wait. Just wait till 1 strike it in 
 that tunnel, and we'll go to New York and buy — buy 
 the Astor House. Yes, we will, bar and all. " Thus the 
 generous sentiments of the heart led many of the noblest 
 of the pioneers on the way to their ruin. 
 
 '' Good, good ! But you won't strike it. No, you 
 won't never strike it while 1 live. Why, if I wait for 
 you to strike it in that old tunnel, I'll be so dry (hie)— 
 well, I'll be evaporated." 
 
 ^' There's gold in there. 1' ve been here since '49, and 
 I'd ought to know. I'll strike it yet, Colonel Billy. 
 And you won't evaporate." 
 
 '' Yes, 1 will evaporate. We all v/ill. Won't we, 
 boys?" 
 
 '' Well, then, come, let's have a drink. Come, boys," 
 and '' '4:9" crossed over to the bar with the boys. " See 
 there, boys ; she did it. Took its eye out with the bow 
 and arrows I made for her. There, barkeep. Have it 
 for your dinner ? Might have a meaner one. Yes, you 
 might have a worse dinner than a chipmunk, barkeep." 
 
 Colonel Billy spit cotton furiously, for the whiskey was 
 poured out, and each man had his glass in his hand. But 
 as no one in the mines ever drank till the man who treated 
 lifted his glass, the old colonel was suffering horribly. 
 
 ^' Why, when I came here in '49, that 'ere squirrel 
 would ha' been a dinner fit for a king. Tough times, 
 
'^i'm a total wheck." C3 
 
 tlien, I tell you. Tlicni's tlio times, too, wlien wo used 
 to have a man for breakfast ; women were so bad, and 
 wliiskej v/as so bad, Colonel Billy. Yes, yes ! But 
 now tliat IVe got that tnnnel, and am goin' to strike it 
 right away, I Vv^ouldn't eat chipmnnk — no." He raised 
 his glass, and then dropped it again. The faces of the 
 miners and Billy expressed the keenest disappointment. 
 
 Standing there with his glass in hand and resting on 
 tlie bar in most provoking irresolntion, to the dismay of 
 all, he began again : 
 
 '^ And wlien 1 do strike it and get back to my wife 
 and little blue-eyed baby in the cradle on the banks of 
 the Mississippi — " Here Carrots clung closer to him — ■ 
 " Oh, I'll take you, my girl. Oh, never do you fear, 
 I'll take you. And I'll take a big buckskin bag of gold- 
 dust, yellow and rich and beautiful as your beautiful hair, 
 my girl. And we won't let 'em know we're corain'. 
 No. We'll just slip up to the cabin there — slip up 
 through tlie corn, and jast slip in quiet like, while my 
 wife's leanin' on the mantel and lookin' the other way, 
 and then we'll crawl up to the little cradle settin' in the 
 middle of the floor, and we'll pour the gold down in the 
 cradle at that baby's feet as it lies there a-crowin' , and 
 my wife will turn and see it all — gold, gold, gold !" 
 
 " ' '49 ! ' ^ '49 ! ' Old pard ! You mustn't think of 
 that, you know. Your head ! You mustn't talk of 
 the States. You know it makes you (hie) wild to talk of 
 the States." 
 
 ^^ I forgot, 1 forgot. Forgive me, boys. Here's to 
 — to — to — her." 
 
 And, as he lifted his glass, he turned, and for the first 
 time saw young Devine. 
 
 '' 'Frisco chap, eh ? Have a drink, stranger ?" 
 
 '^ No, thank you ; I rarely drink." 
 
64: '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 ** Earely drinks! Well, lie ain't quite square," 
 mused Colonel Billy. 
 
 Gully suddenly looked up. As his startled eyes fell 
 upon the stranger he became pale as death. Then he 
 started from the table. 
 
 '' Charley Devine !" he muttered between his set 
 teeth. '' By all that's fiendish, he's found this out-of- 
 tlie-way place, without his papers, and it will not be like 
 him if he is not without money, too. Well, here's for 
 the game of bluff. Fortune favors the brave," and, by 
 a supreme effort, he cried, *' Hello, Charley." 
 
 *' Gully ! who'd have thought of seeing you here," 
 cried Devine. " Lucky Tom Gully, 1 heard them call 
 you. Well, I'm the lucky man this time, for I'm flat 
 broke." 
 
 '^ Good ! Flat broke ! He does not even suspect 
 me," said Gully to himself. " I'm your friend, 
 Charley, and will help you. But what's the trouble ?" 
 
 '' Well, you see, 1 was very mellow that night 1 
 started ; I had gambled, you know, and when I got 
 sober the next day I found that 1 had either lost the 
 papers or, in the hurry of my leaving. Judge Snowe 
 had given me the wrong package. Only some old 
 papers of yours, w^here you had been sued for a tailor's 
 bill! Well, you know how gruff and stern Snowe is. I 
 couldn't go back ; and, then, I wanted to try and find 
 something about my father ; if possible, to find his 
 grave. And as I knew the name of this place, 1 at last 
 managed to get here. But how is it you are here ?" 
 
 '' Treat an old miner ? Been here since '49. Spring 
 of '50. Treat an old miner ? Total wreck — total 
 wreck," observed the comet, as it came around in its 
 orbit between the two men. 
 
 ^' Billy, you're drunk," and Gully pushed him aside. 
 
"I'm a total wreck." G5 
 
 ''No offence, stranger, no offence. Total wreck, total 
 wreck. ' ' 
 
 And the fiery comet swept on around in its orbit to 
 
 *' And you come here to mine ?" queried Devine, as 
 he looked Gully steadily in the face. 
 
 ''To marry." 
 
 ' ' To marry ? Why, there are no marriageable ladies 
 here in this dreadful place, are there ?" 
 
 '' There is one marriageable lady, and 1 am engaged 
 to her." 
 
 " I congratulate you." 
 
 And the frank and unsuspecting young man gave the 
 other his hand. 
 
 " It's queer. Carrots," said " '49" to the girl, who 
 had been looking curiously at the stranger. " The new 
 one looks square now. But that Lucky Tom is three-cor- 
 nered. He is as triangular as a dinner-gong. Let's see 
 what' s goin' on. ' ' 
 
 The old man rose up, and Carrots danced across before 
 the miners, and stopped suddenly in front of Devine. 
 
 " Stranger, hello ! What's your name ?" 
 
 '' Well, my little lady, this man here. Colonel Billy, 
 says my name is Mr. Beaver. Ha, ha ! Mr. Charley 
 Beaver, then. Now, what's your name, my little girl ?" 
 
 " Carrots !— just Carrots. That's all." 
 
 '' Good-evening, sir," says " '49." 
 
 " Good-evening, sir. Carrots ! Queer name. Eh, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Yes. You see we call her Carrots, because — well, 
 because her hair is like gold, sir. Twenty carats fine, 
 and all pure gold. That's why, sir. And sing: why, 
 she sings like a bird. When 1 strike it in my tunnel 
 I'm goin' to take her back with me to the States, sir. 
 
CG '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 to tend and sing to my little bahy. Have a drink, Mr. 
 —Mr.— Charley Beaver V 
 
 "Well — thank you. Don't care if I do now. It's 
 damp out of doors. Then 1 want to know you better, 
 sir. Yoa look to me as if you might be the king of 
 these Sierras. Yes, 1 will drink with you. " 
 
 '' That's right. You see I'm old "' 'd-O.' The boys 
 all know me. I'm goin' to strike it in my tunnel next 
 week, and go back to the States. I'm tired of this. 
 Tired, tired. I want to see my wife and baby." 
 
 '' Why, what part of the States ?" 
 
 Again the comet had made the circle. It swept in 
 between the two gentlemen — a way it had — as if it knew 
 a gi-eat deal more than it pretended to. The colonel laid 
 a hand on the young man's shoulder. 
 
 " Stranger ! Mr. Charley Beaver. Don't, don't you 
 never git him on that. He's a little — " And here 
 Colonel Bill tapped his head gravely. " Y^ou see, he's 
 been waitin' so long and been hopin' so long, it's turned 
 him jest a little. No. Never let him talk about that. 
 He's all right on other things, but not that. Never, 
 never let him talk of the States, stranger — never of a 
 wife and a wee bit of a baby in the cradle." 
 
 '' Well, then, I won't ;" and he turned to " '49." 
 
 " Tell me, where did these girls come from ?" 
 
 '^ That's more than the oldest of us here can tell," 
 answered " '49." " Y^ou see these mountains were full 
 of people once. Full, like a full tide of the sea, when 
 we first found gold here. The tide v/ent out, and left 
 the driftwood and seaweeds and wrecks. These are 
 part of them — I am part of them." 
 
 " But Carrots — where did she come from ?" 
 
 "Don't know, I say. She was first seen, a mere 
 baby, beggin' about among the miners with some Injuns. 
 
**i'm a total wreck." 67 
 
 They took the liijims to the Reservation ; the Injuns 
 died, and 1 went down and got my little Carrots and 
 brought her back to the mountains, or she'd have died 
 too.'' 
 
 ^' And when was this you first saw her among the 
 Indians ? Spring of '57, eh ?" chimed in the comet, as 
 again in its orbit it poked its fiery nose betvv^een the 
 men. 
 
 "Yes, guess it was," says "'49." "He's got a 
 memory. Was a great lawyer once." 
 
 " Yes ; and don't you know, ' '49,' how we first called 
 Carrots ' The baby ' ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and do you remember the time she stole some 
 raw turnips ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and ate 'em, and got the colic, and like to 
 died ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and Poker Jack got on his mule to go to 
 Mariposa for the doctor." 
 
 " Yes ; and got into a poker game, and didn't get 
 back for four days." 
 
 " Yes ; and the doctor didn't come, and so the baby 
 got well. " 
 
 '* Just so. Just so, ' '49 ' ;" and the comet crept 
 on, shaking its head a bit at the memory of departed 
 days. 
 
 " Thank you. And the other one, ' '49 ' ?" 
 
 " Well, that mout be her child ; but 1 guess she got 
 picked up, too, by old Mississip. But, you see Belle, 
 she's stuck up. Guess she's got blood in her. I don't 
 like lier at all like 1 do my little Carrots." 
 
 Devine was thoughtful for a moment, and then said to 
 himself : 
 
 " This can't be the girl. Wo.ter finds its level. She 
 has sunk to the kitchen. The other one is the lady. 1 
 
68 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 will talk to Gull J. He seems to be most intimate with 
 lier. What does it mean ?" 
 
 '' What, ain't goin' to bed, are yon ?" said " '49," as 
 the yonng man turned away. 
 
 "Oh, yes, ' '49.' Let him go. You'll talk too 
 much, and have one of your spells again," cried little 
 Carrots, as she clung to the hand of her only friend on 
 earth. " Come, let's go up to the cabin." Then she 
 darted back behind the bar and stole her bow and 
 arrows. 
 
 " Come here. Carrots, and give us a song, and then 
 we'll all go," said an old miner. 
 
 " Yes, a song," shouted the miners in chorus. 
 
 '' 1 ain't got no song," said Carrie, pouting. 
 
 " Yes, just one song for the boys, Carrots, and we'll 
 go up to the old cabin." 
 
 " Give us ' The Days of Forty-nine,' " they all 
 shouted. 
 
 " Shall I, "49 ' ? Will you, boys, all join in ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " 1 will assist," said the comet, clearing its throat. 
 
 " All right. Join in the chorus all of you." And, 
 smoothing down her storm of hair, she sang in a clear, 
 sweet voice, while every miner roared in chorus : 
 
 " We have -worked out our claims, we have spent our gold, 
 Our barks are astrand on the bars ; 
 We are battered and old, yet at night we behold 
 
 Outcroppings of gold in the stars. 
 And though few and old, our hearts are bold ; 
 Yet oft do we repine 
 For the days of old, 
 For the days of gold — 
 For the days of Forty-nine. 
 Chorus. — And though few and old, cur hearts are bold, etc. 
 
*'i'M a total AVliECK." 69 
 
 " Where the rabbits play, where the quail all day- 
 Pipes on, on the chapparal hill, 
 A few more daj's, and the last of us lays 
 
 His pick aside, and is still. 
 Though battered and old, our hearts are bold ; 
 Yet oft do we repine 
 For the days of old, 
 For the days of gold — 
 For the days of Forty-nine. 
 Chorus. — Though battered and old, our hearts are bold," etc. 
 
 " Bravo !" shouted the miners, while some groped in 
 their empty pockets, and shook their heads mournfully. 
 
 '' Come, Carrots, we must get back to the cabin," said 
 ^' '49," starting to his feet. 
 
 '' And may 1 not come to the cabin, too, some day, 
 sir?" asked Devine. 
 
 " You will be as welcome as the warm winds of these 
 Sierras, sir." 
 
 "But we've got a bulldog tied to the door,'' said 
 Carrots. " Got it for him," pointing to Gully. 
 
 " 1 will come, dog or uo dog," laughed Devine. 
 
 "We drink water out of the same spring with the 
 grizzly bear," said " '49." 
 
 " Drinks water ! Bah ! Like a boss !" chipped in 
 the comet. 
 
 "I've got a great tunnel up there. I've bored half a 
 mile into that mountain, sir." 
 
 " I v/ill come." Then a sudden impidse seized upon 
 Devine. " I — 1 — May I not come to-night ? I am a 
 stranger, and poor, and — " 
 
 " Poor, and a stranger ?" and " '49 " grasped his hand. 
 ' ' You are my guest. And when you are ready we'll go. ' ' 
 
 "I'm so glad," said Carrots, aside, and she began to 
 brush and fix herself up. " I like the looks of him. 1 
 wonder if he likes the looks of me ?" 
 
CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 IN THE DARK. 
 
 The gold that with the sunlight lies 
 
 In bursting heaps at dawn, 
 The silver spilling from the skies 
 
 At night to walk upon ; 
 The diamonds gleaming with the dew 
 He never saw, he never knew. 
 
 A STRANGER and friendless, young Devine was only 
 too glad to accept the hospitality of old "'49." The 
 three, dripping with the storm, cold and hungry, crept 
 together up the canon, and into the miserable old cabin. 
 All were silent. The young man had not a dollar in his 
 pocket, and the frugal breakfast told him but too plainly 
 how poor was his new-found friend. But " '49," as 
 usual, was rich iji hope, and soon his glowing accounts 
 of the possibilities of the old tunnel tired the youth ; 
 and before noon he led his new partner deep into the 
 mountain, and there, by the dim light of the dripping- 
 candle, instructed him in the mysteries of gnome-land. 
 
 And it was liigh time, too, that he had some one to take 
 the pick from his now feeble and failing hand. 
 
 How the pick clanged and rung now against the hard 
 gray granite and quartz ! There is no intoxication like 
 that of the miner's, who is made to feel that the very 
 next blow may make him a millionaire. This old miin 
 was an enthusiast, on this one subject at least, and he 
 imparted his enthusiasm to his new partner. 
 
 And yet, the young man was not acting without great 
 
IN THE DARK. 71 
 
 deliberation. lie soon found out who tlie ^^ marriage- 
 able young lady" was to whom Gully was engaged, and 
 decided that his post of duty was right there in the 
 camp, as close to the side of the heiress as might be. 
 He had at once written to the old lawyer in St. Louis ; 
 imd also to his mother, telling her truly what there was 
 to tell, tenderly speaking of the two white graves on the 
 rocky ridge which he so often gazed upon. 
 
 He was confident that the lawyer, Snowe, and, per- 
 haps, his mother, would come to him at once. Yet the 
 place was remote from railroads, and the mails were few 
 and far betvv^een, so he must patiently wait. In the 
 mean time, penniless as he was, what better could he 
 possibly do than work while he waited ? 
 
 'Weeks, months, stole by. The old man was able 
 merely to hobble about novv^, and rarely ventured into 
 the damp, dripping, and dreadful tunnel. The youth, 
 too, was breaking under his toil and the scant living. 
 His clothes were in tatters. The sharp stones had cut 
 his boots to pieces, and he was literally barefoot. And 
 there was no sign of gold. Every evening he would take 
 down to the old cabin sj)ecimens of the last rock he had 
 wrenched from the flinty front of the wall. These old 
 '' '49 "would clutch in his trembling hands and turn 
 over, and examine with his glass. Then he would lay 
 them down with a sigh, shake his head, and, lighting his 
 pipe, would sit there by Carrie and gaze into the fire in 
 silence. 
 
 Young Devine was becoming fearfully discouraged. 
 Perhaps the old man was, too, but no sign was permitted 
 to escape his lips. 
 
 Meanwhile the enmity between the parties in the cabin 
 and the parties down at the saloon was not permitted to 
 die out. 
 
72 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 Trust a woman like old Mississip to keep hatred alive 
 between men. 
 
 The degradation of Devine had brought new indig- 
 nities, so he resolved to attempt nothing more till help 
 arrived from St. Louis. Ah me ! but he was weary of 
 waiting. 
 
 He was almost naked ; he was bent and broken from 
 toil ; he was hungry ; he was literally desperate. Yet he 
 could see that Dosson and Emens were at work every 
 day in the tunnel on their side of the spur ; and their 
 energy somehow impelled him to toil on wdiile strength 
 was left to him to lift a pick. 
 
 Once he heard a dull, heavy thud. He put his ear to 
 the wall before him, and he could hear the stroke of 
 their drills against the granite. He now knew that only 
 a narrow wall of a few feet divided them. 
 
 It was idle, vain to hope, that in that narrow wall could 
 be found the fortune for which '' '49" had toiled so long 
 and patiently. The young man was now utterly dis- 
 couraged. Despair was aj)proaching close. He could 
 not, he would not, attempt another blow. 
 
 That evening, as usual, he picked up the nearest 
 fragment of rock, and taking his pick on his shoulder 
 crept out of the tunnel, determined to return no more. 
 
 As he passed out of the mossy and fern-grown mouth 
 of the tunnel, it seemed to be dripping more than ever. 
 It had been a hot day, and he surmised that the water 
 came from the melting snow above, on the stee^D moun- 
 tain height. 
 
 Down at the cabin, with some flowers in her hand, 
 stood little " Carrots." She had grown almost to woman- 
 hood, and looked so lovely now. She kept arranging 
 the flowers, holding her pretty head to one side, and now 
 and then looking up the trail as she talked to herself. 
 
IN- THE DARK. 73 
 
 ^^ Hiimpli ! No dandy Charley now. No black coat, 
 no black pants, no high hat now. Oh, he's the 
 raggedest man in the mountains, and that's saying he's 
 pretty ragged, I tell you. And I do believe he's 
 sometimes hungry. I've gathered him these flowers. 
 He likes flowers. We've gathered lots of flowers 
 together. I'll put them on his table out here, in the 
 door-yard, under the tree, where he and ' '49 ' eat their 
 dinner, when they have any dinner. Poor little Carrots, 
 that Mississip says is so bad ! 1 wonder if 1 am bad ? 
 1 do lie, that's so ; I do steal a little ; but 1 am not mean. 
 There, Charley, is a kiss for you on the sweet flowers." 
 
 And so talking to herself, and arranging the flowers, 
 the child did not see that silent and gloomy old '' '49" 
 had just returned to the cabin, and stood there be- 
 fore the door. Poor broken and desojate old miner ! 
 And here let me correct a popular error : 
 
 Some one has said that these old Californians kept the 
 secrets of their previous lives, and took new names to 
 conceal their questionable past. 
 
 Oh, no ; not for that did these men close their lips 
 to their fellows. But the baby at home, the wife wait- 
 ing there — these were their gods. Around these they 
 drew the magic circle of desolate silence. No man 
 there, save in the hour of death, when gold and mes- 
 sages were to be given up to be taken to them by the 
 trusted partner, talked of his love or his little ones. 
 
 This home, hearthstone, far away, was a shrine that 
 lay in the innermost heart of the temple, where day and 
 night these strong men knelt and worshipped. 
 
 And so do not wonder that " '49," when sober, never 
 talked of the ]3ast to this stranger. 
 
 Once, twice, thrice had the boy attemp)ted to lead the 
 miner up to the subject of the white graves out yonder 
 
74 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 on the rockj ridge ; but eacli time, almost savagely, lie 
 turned away. 
 
 And it was a delicate subject for tlie boy to talk upon. 
 For who could care to talk of a father who had died a 
 felon ? Somehow, from what the men said on the hill 
 as he first came into camp, or from their manner of say- 
 ing what they did, he came to think that that tree had 
 something to do with his father's death. He wanted to 
 know of a certainty if the two unfortunate beings buried 
 there were hanged on this dead oak under which they 
 lay. But '^'49" would answer not one word touching 
 the two graves that glared there in the October sun. 
 And so in his heart the young man whose name now had 
 crystallized and shaped itself as in mockery of his 
 present sad plight into that of '' Dandy" or '^ Dandy 
 Charley," resolved to ask Colonel Billy, and find out all 
 the facts possible concerning his dead father ere his 
 mother reached the rough mining camp. 
 
CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 GOING AWAY. 
 
 Over the mountains and down by the sea, 
 A dear old mother sits waiting for me, 
 "Waiting for me, waiting for me — 
 A dear old mother sits waiting for me. 
 
 And waiting long, and oh, waiting late, 
 Is a sweet-faced girl at the garden gate ; 
 Over the mountains and down by the sea, 
 A sweet-faced girl is waiting for me. 
 
 On this last evening, when the wretched h'ttle party 
 rose np from a miserable dinner, the old man went 
 into the dark corner of his cabin, and sitting by the 
 sooty fireplace, he moodily smoked his pipe. Carrie 
 wandered away alone np on the hillside, among the rocks, 
 still warm with departed smishine, and gathered wild 
 flowers in the twilight. 
 
 Bat young Devine took np a short pine board, a pick, 
 and axe, and silently set out down the trail, as if he w^ere 
 going to town. He left the trail on the rocky ridge and 
 turned aside to the two graves under the blighted oak, 
 and there, with his axe, cut and cleared avv^ay the trees 
 and bushes that had been trying for twenty years or 
 more to hide them from view. 
 
 Then he took up his pick and dug a hole at the head 
 of and between the two graves. In this hole he set the 
 pine board. Then he raked in the dirt, and to make it 
 more firm and sohd, he heaped some stones about the 
 foot of it, and beat them dov/n with the pick. The 
 
76 *49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 steel clanged on the flinty quartz, making a strange 
 sound in the gathering twilight. 
 
 Old Colonel Billy, who, when sober enough, put in 
 his time panning ont in the edge of the muddy little 
 stream np above, and not far from the month of the 
 timnel driven by Dosson and Emens, chanced to be pass- 
 ing on his way home just then, and was startled by the 
 clanging of the steel against the flinty stone. He looked 
 np, and seeing the bushes cleared away, and ^' Dandy," 
 whom he had named, and whom he had early learned to 
 like, leaning over the head of the graves, hammering on 
 the stones whh a pick, he came stumbling up over the 
 rocks, and stood for a moment by his side, silent with 
 wonder. 
 
 Then seeing a black pencilled inscription on tlie white 
 pine board, he stooped on his hands and knees and read : 
 
 ^' To THE Memory 
 
 OF 
 
 Charles Devine and Friend." 
 
 The old colonel drew his rheumatic legs up under him 
 as fast as he could, and rose. He looked curiously at the 
 young man for a long time. Then he brushed his left 
 palm against the right, and his right against the left, 
 then dusted them again. Then stepping back and down 
 toward the trail a pace or two, he looked up the stream 
 and down the stream, and then at the young man leaning 
 sadly on his pick-handle, and said : 
 
 "'Friends of your^n?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The long pause that followed was painful to both, and 
 the old colonel again attempted to tear himself away, and 
 took another step or two backward and down tov/ard the 
 
GOING AWAY. 77 
 
 trail. But tlie strange conduct of this young man, the 
 unaccountable sadness of the fine-cut face that stood out 
 in profile against the clear twilight sky, as he looked 
 up from where he rested below, chained him to the 
 spot. 
 
 And then it seemed to this old man that this was a 
 sort of innovation — a species of trespass. What right 
 had this stranger to come here and dig up the dead past, 
 and set an inscription over the dead of this camp ? Who 
 but he and his old partner, old '' '49," knew aught of 
 these two graves or their occupants now ? 
 
 At last, lifting a boot with its ancient wrinkles and 
 3^awning toe to a rock on a level with his left knee, he 
 rested his elbow on this knee, settled his bearded chin 
 into his upturned palm, and pushing back his battered 
 old white hat, exclaimed : 
 
 ^' They desarved it ! Yes, they did ! No disrespect 
 to your feel in 's. Dandy. But when men go for to 
 climbing down honest men's chimbleys, when they are 
 asleep, for to rob 'em, 1 say pepper 'em ! And 1 say 
 they desarved it ! There !' ' 
 
 The hand was high up and the palm was brought 
 emphatically down, all doubled up, after it had been 
 thrust over toward the dead men in their graves, and 
 again the man half turned as if to go. Devine was 
 suddenly all attention, and cried out eagerly : 
 
 "What! And they were not hung on this tree? 
 They were shot ? Did you say shot V ' 
 
 " Why, yes, shot ! Didn't ' '49 ' tell ye ? Oh, no ! 
 Come to think, he'd be about the last man that would. 
 And then he ain't given to talkin' of anything but that 
 old tunnel, anyhow. But, Dandy, friends or no friends 
 of your'n, 1 tell you he wasn't to blame." 
 
 '' Who— who wasn't to blame ? Who ? Speak !" 
 
78 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 '^ Dandy, we came into this 'ere camp 'bout tlie same 
 lime, ' '49 ' and me. He is as square as a Freemason's 
 rule. Why, 1 have known him, young and old, for 
 nigh on to thirty years. ISTov/, I'll tell ye what made it 
 so bad. When these two pards — beggin' your pardon — 
 got peppered, they crawled down the trail this way. 
 Well, right here one of 'em 'pears to have tuckered out. 
 And w^hat does the other do but sit down agin this 'ere 
 tree, take his head in his lap, and hold him, and nuss him 
 and care for him till he was dead, and even then didn't 
 try to leave him. But right here, in the darkness, with 
 the awful disgrace and all, he stuck right here with his 
 dead pard, and died with him." 
 
 '' Oh, my poor father," murmured the boy, lifting a 
 wet face, and looking away against the twilight sky. 
 
 " And that's what captured the camp. To see a pard 
 stand by his pard like that. Dandy ; I tell you, that 
 fetched the boys. And they were really sorry they w\as 
 killed. And they didn't like the man that killed 'em. 
 And they never did, and they never will. And that's 
 just what's the matter of ' '49.' Yes. To kill men hke 
 that, you know. It's made him feel bad all his life. 
 But they desarved it. They desarved it. They've 
 mined my old pard ' '49.' And they desarved all he 
 give 'em. Good-night ! Good-night !" 
 
 The young man bounded down the rocks, and caught 
 the retreating figure by the shoulder. 
 
 '' And you say that'' '49 ' killed Mm .^— them ?" 
 
 ^' Sartin ! And they desarved it. Good-night." 
 
 The old colonel shook him oft' and went stumbling on 
 down the rocky trail as fast as he could go. He was 
 almost afraid of him now ; his eyes had a glare of mur- 
 der — of madness — in them. 
 
 From a little summit near town he looked back. The 
 
GOING AWAY. 79 
 
 joimg man had moved from the spot where he left him, 
 and was now kneeling by the graves. 
 
 But soon Devine rose to his feet, and turned his face 
 tov/avd the cabin of old '^^49." He M^alked rapidly, 
 and in a few moments came face to face with Carrie, who 
 was at the door. 
 
 " Get ready !" he said to Carrie, sharply. 
 
 '^What? What do you mean? Coin' — are you 
 goin' away ?" 
 
 " 1 am going. This is no place for me. Ko place for 
 you. Get ready ; I am going. If you have any respect 
 for me— for yourself — you will not stay here another 
 hour." 
 
 He stepped into the cabin, and Vv^ent up to the little 
 window. The moon had risen now, and the uncovered 
 graves shone white and bright in the silver light. 
 
 The old man in the corner laid some pine-knots on the 
 fire, and they began to burn fitfully. The quartz rocks 
 which Devine had brought in, as was Iris custom at the 
 end of every day, as specimens from the tunnel, still lay 
 on the table unexamined by the old man. Devine had 
 thought them softer and more rotten and worthless than 
 usual, as he laid them there. 
 
 ^' ' '49,' I am going away." 
 
 The old man sighed, but did not move. 
 
 At last the girl, who had remained by the door, came 
 up to where the 3"0ung man now stood by the window. 
 She put up her face ; slie put out a soft, sun-browned 
 hand, and gently touched his. It was but a little tiling 
 she did, and yet it seemed to her that she had done all — 
 all that could be done. 
 
 Charley was still moody. He did not stir, but gazed 
 out down the valley, through the deep canon, as he 
 said : " Get ready ; we are going — going now." 
 
80 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 The girl drew back in the dark corner where the old 
 dog crouched. She fell on her knees at his side and took 
 his big, battered head in her thin ragged arms, and held 
 hiiTi to lier heart. Then out of that dark corner came a 
 sob that startled ^^'49," who had risen and was ap- 
 proaching the window. Still the young man did not hear 
 or heed. Finally he left the window, and, going to the 
 cupboard, he felt about and found a piece of bread, 
 v/hich he thrust into his bosom for the morrow. 
 
 The old man, thouglitful and silent, at length hobbled 
 up to the window, looked out, and beheld the uncovered 
 graves. 
 
 His face grew black with anger. Perhaps it was sel- 
 fish anger. Had he not suffered bitterly ? Yet he had 
 in some sort become reconciled. But now, when this 
 stranger, whom he had found hungry and alone in the 
 world, had entered her heart and taken his place there, 
 and stood coldly commanding her ! Why, she had 
 stolen bread for him ! The old man was weak in mind 
 and in body now. lie was scarcely accountable for 
 what he might do or say. He knit his wrinkled and 
 overhanging brows, and turned, up and down the floor. 
 Then he went to the fire and laid a lot of pine-knots 
 on, and there was a bright blaze. 
 
 The young man once more turned about. For the last 
 time he gazed out of the window at the two white graves 
 glistening in the moonlight. Then he commenced to 
 sing a soft air in a low tone, and tap the floor with his 
 foot. This seemed to madden '' '49,'- and he muttered 
 to himself : 
 
 '' To take her away from me now ! To take her away 
 like that ! To take her from me and throw me quite aside, 
 and stand there a singin' ! I— I could murder her !" 
 
 His feeble old hand fell down at his side, and touched 
 
GOING AWAY. 81 
 
 a heavy pick-liancllc that stood there hy the fire. In- 
 stinctively he clutched it. lie half lifted it in the air. 
 He was looking straight at the young man standing 
 there, humming an air — a sad, plaintive air — as he 
 looked out and down the valley. The girl still crouched 
 back in the dark corner by the dog. She did not want 
 to go away. Yet she loved, oh, so tenderly and so 
 truly. This was her first great heart-struggle. Once or 
 twice the old man thought he heard her try to suppress 
 a sob. At last he was sure he heard her. Then he 
 started forw^ni'd. At first he started to her. -lie still 
 held the long hickory pick-handle. As he approached 
 and stood at the back of the young m.an, he paused. 
 He did not hear the girl any more. He heard, saw 
 nothing now. He only thought of murder. 
 
 Nothing is so dangerous to a man as the sense of once 
 having killed a man. There is something singularly 
 fatal in this. Let a man once kill one man, and he w^iil 
 find an easy excuse in his heart to kill another. Old 
 Californians know this well. And they have a saying, 
 to the effect that it is hard on the man who is killed, but 
 a great deal harder on the man who kills him. 
 
 The old stand or table on which Devine each day, on 
 return from his work, emptied out his specimens, stood 
 near the middle of the floor, and before the little win- 
 dow by which he was now standing. Here lay the little 
 heap of quartz he had brought home this last day. The 
 distracted old man had been too sad and too much 
 troubled to examine the S23ecimens. And so there the 
 ragged and jagged rocks lay — black and wiiite, and 
 brown and gra}''-— rocks that had never seen the light 
 since they sprang into existence at the fiat of the 
 Almighty. 
 
 " Going away, now ! Going to take her away ! 
 
82 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKBR OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 And tlien to go and cut down the bushes that had hidden 
 all ! To go and drag bare the two graves, and set them 
 glaring in my face ; and then take her away, and leave 
 me here to go mad !" 
 
 Tighter the old man clutched his club as he ap- 
 proached the boy from behind. He poised it in the air. 
 He measured the distance to the back of his head with 
 his eye. 
 
 ^' And to stand there coolly singiii', as he looks out 
 upon the two graves!" muttered '' '49 " to himself. 
 Then he paused a second, for he seemed to catch a note 
 in the low, half-inaudible air that he had somewhere 
 heard before. For this man had been no savage in his 
 youth, whatever he may have been now. 
 
 Devine was waiting for the girl. He once or twice half 
 turned his head to ascertain if she was getting ready to 
 go. Then he continued to sing. 
 
 Again the old man seemed resolved. He raised his 
 club. The table was a little in the way. He stepped 
 around it, and at the same time peered into the corner 
 to ascertain if Carrie saw him. Her head w^as still bowed 
 above the dog, and she was now sobbing bitterly. He 
 measured the distance. 
 
 The blow w^ould fall at the base of the brain. The 
 neck would be broken. One step nearer ! Then he set 
 his right foot firmly in front, and gathered all his 
 strength. The club leaped in the air. 
 
 The dog growled. The young man half turned his 
 head, and the other lowered his club and pushed the bits 
 of quartz about on the table. He took a piece in his 
 hand and fell back toward the fire. He made pretence 
 of examining it. The young man again looked out at 
 the soft and silvery moonlight, down the valley, and 
 again began to sing to himself. 
 
GOING AWAY. 83 
 
 It was tlie old melody — '' '49's" melody — the notes lie 
 and Mary had sung together — the song he had sung 
 every year since he had left her leaning there in tears by 
 the mantel. 
 
 The old man grew wild ! His eyes took fire. II o 
 seemed to grow tall, as a storm-tossed pine. Ho was 
 strong as a giant. He felt like a lion. Surely ho was 
 going mad. He thought of Mary, of the baby in the 
 cradle, of the gold in the tunnel. He was so certain of 
 that gold, he could see it. And yet he was going to 
 share it with this wretch ! 
 
 Gold is hard. Gold is a hard substance, and it is the 
 most hardening substance in the world. 
 
 a ?49" glanced swiftly about to see if he had been ob- 
 served. He listened. Only now and then a half-sup- 
 pressed sob burst in the corner, that Devine could not 
 hear for his own sad song ; only the deep breathing of 
 the bulldog, the snapping of the pine-knot, the gargle of 
 the water in the canon without. Nothing ; no one had 
 seen or heard anything at all. 
 
 He clutched his pick-handle once more. He stood 
 erect, and moved with confidence and precision. Ho 
 was resolute now. Let the dog growl if he liked. He 
 would kill the dog, too. Gold ! gold ! gold ! All 
 should be his. Not one ounce to this merciless stranger 
 who had laid bare the reproachful stones, and would now 
 rob him of the little girl he had learned to love ! 
 
 As the old man again planted his foot in front and 
 poised his pick-handle for the fatal blow, the moonlight 
 fell like silver across the window-sill. Then, as if he 
 had been waiting for that, the boy began to sing — to sing 
 clear and strong^ and full — the soncj which his mother 
 had bade him sing when he was desolate. 
 
 The heavy pick- handle sank to the floor, the old man 
 
84 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 leaned forward, and from tlie low, sad song drank in 
 these words : 
 
 *' Then sing the song we loved, love, 
 When all life seemed one song, 
 For life is none too long, love, 
 Ah, love is none too long." 
 
 " Who can know them but she and I ? It is sacred to 
 ns alone ! It is her song ; it is her voice !' ' He sprang 
 forward, and clutching the young man's shoulder, he 
 drew liim round, and cried in his face : 
 
 " Where — where did you learn that song ?" 
 
 Coldly and calmly the young man answered, looking 
 In'm sternly in the eyes, while the girl, who had started 
 forward, stood at his side, all wonderment : 
 
 ^' It is my mother's song. It is the song that my 
 father — my father yonder — my father ! — They sung it 
 together, while they lived, each Christmas Eve. And 
 my mother— God bless her — sings it still. But my 
 father yonder — " 
 
 ''J~L Eo! no! lam—" 
 
 The weak and broken old man could no longer bear 
 up. His head spun round, words failed him, and he fell 
 imconscious to the floor. 
 
 The girl had a little bundle in her hand, and she held 
 the old slobber-mouthed dog by a string. She, too, had 
 seen a deadly battle fought between love and duty, with 
 her own heart for the battle-field. Love had won. 
 Duty had been beaten, and she stood with her dog and 
 httle bundle ready to follow wherever her lover might 
 choose to lead her. But they had no thought of leaving 
 the old man now. The first burst of the young man's 
 passion subsided, and as he recalled old ^' '49's" deeds of 
 kindness in the past, he felt remorse and profoundest 
 pty. 
 
GOIiq-G AWAY. 85 
 
 So tliey laid '^^49" on his bunk in tlie corner, be- 
 hind the faded calico curtains, and coaxed him back to 
 life and consciousness. 
 
 How he wanted to embrace his boy ! But the lad 
 seemed so cold, so distant and hard now. He had nev^er 
 seen him so before. Once he tried to sing the old song. 
 But he had no strength or voice. Then he thought he 
 would say over to himself the lines, and letliis boy hear 
 him as he bent over him. He thought he would say 
 them low and softly and not above a whisper at first. 
 Then he whispered to himself, and slept unheard, even 
 as he breathed : 
 
 " For life is none too long, love, 
 And love is none too long." 
 
 Then he dreamed. He dreamed of her. He had re- 
 turned with gold. With heaps and heaps of gold. He 
 saw her standing by the mantel, with head bowed, just 
 as of old. He asked her for their baby that he had left 
 in that cradle, and she pointed through the window at 
 an empty bird's-nest in an apple tree. Then a tall, 
 bearded boy embraced him, and called him father. 
 Then he dreamed again of gold. Gold ! gold ! Heaps 
 and heaps of gold ! This awakened him, and he got up. 
 Then he crossed on tip-toe to where his boy sat sleeping 
 in the corner, put back his hair, and tenderly kissed his 
 forehead. 
 
 It was dawn now, and, rousing Carrie, who had gone 
 to sleep with her arms about the dog's neck, he bade her 
 awaken young Devine. 
 
CHAPTEE X. 
 
 so WEARY 
 
 It seems to me that Mother Earth 
 
 Is weary from eternal toil, 
 
 And bringing forth by fretted soil, 
 In all the agonies of birth. 
 
 Sit down ! Sit down ! Lo, it were best 
 
 That we should rest— that she should rest. 
 
 I think we then should all be glad. 
 
 At least I know we are not now ; 
 
 Not one. And even Earth somehow 
 Seems growing old and over-sad. 
 
 Then fold your hands, for it were best 
 
 That we should rest — that she should rest. 
 
 WiiETiTER it was the old man's dream of Leaps of 
 gold, or the young man's reviving hopes of striking it 
 yet, that persuaded him to enter the tunnel once more, 1 
 can't say. Certain it is that as '' '49" took up his gun 
 and hobbled off to make provision for dinner, Devine 
 again shouldered his i>ick and returned to the tunnel, 
 while CaiTots, as usual, wandered away up on the hill to 
 find flowers for her lover and '' '49." 
 
 On this particular day the gay and dashing Gully came 
 down the trail and stood in all his splendor in the empty 
 door-yard before the cabin. lie was engaged in talking 
 to himself. 
 
 ^' Lucky ! Better born lucky than rich any day. 
 Lucky ! why, they called me Lucky Tom Gully on the 
 Mississippi steamers when 1 was a gambler ; Lucky Tom 
 
so WEARY ! 87 
 
 Gully when I was <a loafer in Chicago ; and I had not 
 been in the mines a month till the miners called mo 
 Lucky Tom, by intuition — Lucky !" And here he 
 lighted his cigar. '^ I'm to be married to Belle to-night. 
 But, somehow, 1 don't feel quite solid, with that young 
 fellow and ' '49 ' at sword-points. 1 must make up with 
 them. I must ask them to my wedding. It's a bold 
 stroke. But it is the bold stroke that wins. Poor 
 Charley Devine ! 1 quite paralyzed him with my bold- 
 ness when he first came to the camp. He has not 
 spoken to me since. Poor simpleton ! Pegging away 
 in that old tunnel, without a cent, or even a coat to his 
 back, or shoe to his foot." As he puffed away and 
 lifted his heavy face to the splendor of the mighty 
 mountains about him, he heard Carrots singing gayly in 
 the crags above. 
 
 ^' Carrots ! Why am I afraid of that girl ? Afraid ? 
 Yes, it is fear that drives me to make friends with them 
 — all three — after doing all 1 could to destroy them. 
 An honest set of idiots, that 1 hate, and yet fear." 
 
 Carrots came down from the rocks, carrying a basket 
 in which v/as a loaf of bread hidden by flowers and ever- 
 greens. 
 
 '^ Hello, Store-clothes !" she cried. ^' 'Now, what 
 do you want in old ' 'iQ's ' door-yard ? Better not get 
 inside. A bulldog is there !" 
 
 " Hates me as bad as ever, I see. It's not safe to 
 have such enemies." Then approaching the girl and 
 affecting gentleness, he added : " Carrots, listen to me. 
 I've com^e to ask you and ' '49' and that otlier fellow 
 to — to my wedding." The gambler, all hardened as he 
 was, stumbled at the last word. 
 
 " You don't say so 1" cried Carrots. " Well, I don't 
 think ' '49 ' and ' that other fellow,' as you call him, will 
 
88 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 come to your weddin'. But, I'll tell you wliat 1 tliink 
 they would do, if you would ask 'em." 
 
 '' Well, my dear little wild flower, what would they 
 do if I asked them ?" 
 
 ''Well, I'll tell you. 1 knoir they wou't come to 
 your weddin' . But they would both be powerful glad 
 to come to your funeral." 
 
 '' Bah !" and a flash of malicious hatred came into his 
 eyes. 
 
 As she spoke Colonel Billy, the blazing comet, came 
 upon the scene. But he had taken a vaster orbit now. 
 The " Yigilantes," or rather a set of sleek villains, 
 under shelter of that honored appellation, had taken 
 possession of the camp and banished all idlers, which 
 included all persons hostile to themselves. 
 
 ''Banished! Banished by the Yigilantes at last!" 
 gasped the comet. 
 
 " What ! driven oat ?" said Gully, with affected pity ; 
 and then, chuckling, added to himself, "My work. 
 lie is not for me, and is, therefore, against me. He 
 must go." 
 
 ^' Yes, new people come, call themselves Yigilantes, 
 and drive us old ones out. It's rough, it's tough. 
 Total wreck — total wreck." 
 
 " Well, Colonel Billy," said Gully, " shake hands and 
 part friends. But it's too late to set out on a journey 
 with your blankets to-night. What ! Won't shake 
 hands ?" 
 
 " Not v/itli you, I reckon. I^ot with you. Pretty 
 low down — total wreck — but never shook hands with a 
 man that shook his friends, and never will." 
 
 " What do you mean ?' ' 
 
 *' 1 mean you are a Yigilante. Yes. I know you by 
 ■ — by — the pure cussedness that's in you." 
 
so WEARY ! 89 
 
 '^ Wh}^, 1 — I am not a Yigilante. I am—" 
 
 ''A liar." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 '^ Stick to it, Billy !" cried Carrie, as she handed him 
 tlie knife with which she had been cutting flowers. 
 " He is a Vigilante, and the worst of the lot." And 
 the girl's face was aflame. 
 
 "You are!" shouted the colonel, flourishing his 
 knife. '' And you are the man that's been sendin' off 
 all ' '49 's' friends one by one, one by one. And at 
 last you'll send Azm off, and then Dandy. Oh, you've 
 got devilment in you bigger than a mule. But I'll go. 
 Total wreck— total wreck. I'll see old ' '49 ' just once 
 more and go. For he too is played out. An old miner 
 that never did any harm. That for twenty-five years 
 dug ont gold from the Sierras to make the world rich. 
 But now^ — never mind. I'll go. I'll go. Total 
 wreck." And he dropped the knife on the table and 
 stumbled down the rocky trail. 
 
 " Now, do you see what kind of a critter you are ?" 
 sobbed Carrie. " Poor, poor old Colonel Billy ! Why, 
 if he owned tiie whole Sierras, and you come and wanted 
 it, he'd give it to you. And here you come," she 
 added, indignantly, "and he must go. You won't let 
 liim have even a place to lie down and die in." 
 
 " Carrots, don't be too hard. The man is sent away 
 because he has no visible means of support. All such 
 men must leave the camp. 1 am going to get man-ied 
 and settle down, and 1 want a respectable neighbor- 
 hood." 
 
 " Well, Y/e can't have that while you're around." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 " No ! Guess you'll go after ' '49 ' and Charley next. 
 But if you do, look out for hghtnin'." 
 
90 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 '^ 'No, 1 won't ; all siicli honest and industrious fellows 
 like them will remain, and I will make friends with 
 them." 
 
 '' Bet you a forty-dollar hoss you don't make friends 
 with them." 
 
 " Oh, but 1 will ! 1 am going now to the tunnel to 
 find Charley and ' '49,' and I'll bet you a new silk dress 
 they both come to my wedding. Good-by for a few 
 minutes. I will see Charley, and you will all come to 
 my wedding to-night." And he hurried away. 
 
 *' To-night !" mused Carrots to herself, as she still 
 arranged the flowers for Charley. ^' To-night ! And 
 that nasty Belle is to be married to-night. Well, it's 
 about a match, 1 guess," and as she trimmed the flowers, 
 she sat at the table singing an old negro melody. She 
 arranged the leaves in the basket, and made her bouquet 
 very picturesque, and set it in an old can on the table. 
 '' That bucket's for his dinner. Wonder where I got 
 that song. Think 1 knowed it always," she muttered ; 
 and she recommenced it. 
 
 The flaming comet returned, poking its fiery nose in 
 the little girl's face. He was drunk and happy. 
 
 " That ain't ' '49's ' Christmas song (hie) — that ain't." 
 
 ^^What! Kot gone, Colonel Billy? I'm glad of 
 that." 
 
 '^ I got a drink (hie)— a farewell drink — down at the 
 forks of the trail ; a real, genuine, good farewell drink 
 (hie). Feel better. Won't go at all now." 
 
 " Good. You stay right here. This is the centre of 
 the earth." 
 
 " It is. Why, I couldn't leave this place nohow (hie). 
 I should go round, and round, and round, like the sun 
 around the world, and never, never git away. No ! 1 
 guess I've dug holes enough in the Sierras to entitle me 
 
so WEARY ! 91 
 
 to a grave. And I'll stay, (hie) — go riglit back to town 
 and stay. If tliey want to hang, let ^an hang. Don't 
 care anything to be (hie) hanged !" And the poor old 
 colonel tottered on up the trail. 
 
 A few moments passed when young Devine suddenly 
 dashed in, holding a package of papers with a big red seal ; 
 he was fearfully excited, and looked back over his 
 shoulder, like one pursued. 
 
 '' Why, Charley, how excited you are !" 
 
 ''No, no ; never mind that ; where is ' '49 ' ?" 
 
 " Why, he was to town, and 1 heard him ask the store 
 man for credit, and the store man said he couldn't have 
 even a cracker any more. So he went off with his gun 
 to get somethin' good for our dinner, I guess. But 
 v/hat's the matter, Charley ?" 
 
 " ISTothing ; nothing, my child— my darling. But can 
 you keep a secret ? Oh, I do wish ' '49 ' was here. 
 Can you keep this for m.e ? Keep it as you would keep 
 gold." And he gave her the broad package of papers. 
 " You will keep it and the secret V 
 
 Silently the girl hid the papers in her bosom. 
 
 " Thank you ! Thank you, my — my — my — love, my 
 life. Yes, yes, 1 love you, poor, pitiful little waif of 
 the camp, with all my heart. But there, 1 must go back 
 to the tunnel to my work. Tell no one 1 was here. Do 
 not even whisper it to ' '49.' There !" and eagerly, 
 vv'ildly, he kissed her. " Good-by ; 1 will be back soon, 
 soon, soon." And the excited man dashed away as he 
 came. 
 
 " He kissed me ! And he loves me ! Oh, my 
 patience ! Kissed me, and kissed me, and kissed me ! 
 Kissed me three times at onct. It took my breath away. 
 Oh, I'm so happy ! He gave me this to keepo I 
 wonder v/hat it is ? And 1 wonder what the secret is ? 
 
93 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 And wliat the trouble is ? Trouble ? Trouble ? N"o ; 
 there is no trouble now. There can never be any 
 trouble any more now, for CKarley kissed me." 
 
 As she talked to herself, " '49" entered the door-yard 
 with a hairy ring-tailed coon, his gun on his shoulder. 
 '' Hello, Carrots! Goin' to sing the old song for 
 me?" 
 
 '' Yes ; and 1 v/on't never go to old Mississip no 
 more." 
 
 '' That's right. You stay right here, and when 1 
 strike it — ha, ha !■ — but won't you kiss me ?" 
 
 Carrots was a long time arranging her mouth ; she 
 shrugged up her shoulders, laughing as she remembered 
 Charley's kisses. 
 
 " Yes ; oh, yes. There ! 1 wanted to — to — to — kiss 
 somebody again !" " '49" started, surprised. " Does 
 it ? Do you ? Did it — did it do you as much good to 
 ■ — to — Do you like as well to be kissed as — as — Do 
 you feel as splendid as 1 did when — when — Does it 
 make you tingle all over, and feel comfortable and 
 warm, and summery, when — " And hero the girl hid 
 her face, and then whirled about and laughed in the old 
 man's beard till she cried. 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ?" 
 
 " lie — he — he— he kissed me ; he — Charley." 
 
 " Go— go — go — 'long." 
 
 ^' Yes, he did. And he said he loved me, and he has 
 gone back — " Then, suddenly and very seriously, she 
 said, '' No, he — he — he wasn't here to-day ; it was 
 yesterday— to-morrow !" 
 
 " Well, I don't care wlien it was or where it was. 
 He's an honest, square boy ; and when we strike it in 
 the tunnel, I'll make you ricli, rich. But it's rough 
 times now. Hain't seen such times since '49." 
 
so WEARY ! 93 
 
 '* * '49,' tell me somethin'. Didn't you never love 
 nobody?" 
 
 *' Why, v/hy, yes, my girl. 1 — I loved my mother." 
 
 I wish I'd a had a mother. But, 1 reckon, 1 neve 
 
 a 
 
 er 
 
 had. 'No, 1 guess 1 never had a mother, ' '49.' " 
 
 ^' Never had a mother to love ?" 
 
 *' No ; guess that's why I love Charley, ain't it ? But, 
 now, come, ' '49,' didn't you never have anything to love 
 besides your mother ? Not baby in the cradle ; eh ?" 
 
 '' My child, don't ask me that — don't." 
 
 '' Why 1 won't, then, ^ '49,' if it hurts your feelin's. 
 But I kind o' like to talk about such thins^s now." 
 
 '^ Well, what is it 1 can tell you about now ?" 
 
 '' Why, about yourself. You are always shut up just 
 as tight as a bear in winter-time. Weren't you never 
 young ? And didn't you never love no girl like me ?" 
 
 ^' Yes, yes, yes." 
 
 '' And she didn't love you back ?" 
 
 "She did! God bless her !" 
 
 The girl left her flowers and crossed over to " '49." 
 
 *' And why didn't you live with her, then V 
 
 '^ Now, Carrots, you're liftin' up the water-gates, and 
 you'll flood the whole mine," he replied, in a weary 
 and half -bewildered tone. 
 
 "Well, I'm so sorry, ''49.' I'm so sorry. But 1 
 want to know. I've got no mother to talk to, ' '49,' and 
 I — I want to know how these things come out. Tell me 
 about it, please tell me about her." 
 
 " I will tell you, my honest child, I'll tell you some 
 time." 
 
 " Well, sit down on this rock here. Tell me now, 
 won't you ?" 
 
 The girl half led and half forced the feeble old man 
 around and down on to a great flat rock in the door-yard ; 
 
94 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 and so, flowers in hand, sank down at his feet, with her 
 head almost in his lap. 
 
 As if not heeding her, the man looked at the flowers, 
 and caressed her tenderly. 
 
 '^ And you like those little winter flowers you havo 
 gathered from the rocks for Charley and me ? The 
 lowly little flowers ?" 
 
 '' Yes, yes, they are so lowly ; and they ain't bright. 
 But they're so sweet, ' '49.' " 
 
 '' True, true ! My child, in this cold, hard world 
 the sweetest flowers are lowly. The s^veetest flowers 
 grow closest to the ground." 
 
 '' And you did love her ? Tell me, ' '49,' tell me." 
 
 Still, in an evasive mood, the old man tried to escape 
 the curious little maid, as he said : 
 
 " And Charley's got a sweetheart ?" 
 
 '^ Yes, he's got a sweetheart, and I've got a sw^eetheart. 
 IS'ow, didn't you never have a sweetheart, ' '49 ' f 
 
 '' ISI'o, no, no — shoo ! Do you — you think it will rain 
 this evenin' V ' 
 
 '^ 1 don't know, and 1 don't care. I know I've got a 
 sweetheart, and Charley's got a sweetheart. And didn't 
 you really never have a sweetheart, ' '49 ' ?" 
 
 ''My child, I — 1 — yes, I'll tell you. I never told 
 anybody. But I'll tell you, and tell you now ; and 
 never, never do you mention it any more, for I can't 
 bear to think about it," and his voice quivered. 
 
 " Why, poor, dear ' '49,' you're all broke np — why, 
 I didn't know you ever could cry." 
 
 The old man's rugged cheeks v/ere dashed with tears as 
 he began between his sobs to tell his story in broken bits. 
 
 "Well, you see that poor wife leanin' her head on 
 the mantel there — she stands before me all the tiuie when 
 I turn back to think, and it makes me cry." 
 
so WE A 11 Y ! 95 
 
 '^ But she — slie was good and true ?" 
 
 " Good and true ? Good and true ; and pure as the 
 gold I'm to find in the tunnel and make jouand Charley 
 rich with, my girl." 
 
 '^ And you will never see her any more ?" 
 
 '' Yes, yes, when I strike it in the tunnel. But, 
 then, you see, it was so long, so long, so long ! When 
 I began that tunnel Iwas certain Td strike it in a month 
 — then 1 said in a year. And all the time the little boy- 
 baby crowin' in its cradle, and its sweet mother bendin' 
 over by the mantel waitin', waitin', waitin'." 
 
 '^Dear, dear old ^'49.'" 
 
 " You see, we Forty-niners never knowed much of 
 books, or were much for writin' letters. And then, you 
 know, we wanted to surprise 'em at home. And so we 
 didn't write, but kept waitin' to strike it, and go back 
 and surprise 'em. A year slipped through my fingers, 
 and another, and another, and another, and another. 
 But I'll strike it yet. I'll strike it yet." 
 
 " Oh, I'm so sorry ! I wonder if Charley — well, I'd 
 never let Charley go off hke that — no, sir'ee !'' 
 
 " But there, there ; never mind. I'll see her yet. 
 Yes, I will. And you are goin' to be rich, too, some 
 day. Oh, I will strike it yet. You will be a great lady 
 some day, see if you won't. But w^e must get dinner 
 now." And here he put the girl from before him, as 
 he rose and picked up the coon. ** It is goin' to be a 
 glorious good dinner, too." 
 
 " What are you goin' to have ?" 
 
 ^' This— coon !" 
 
 '^ What's Charley goin' to have? He's been work- 
 in' in the tunnel all day." 
 
 ^' He's goin' to have coon, too." 
 
 *' But he don't like coon." 
 
96 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 '' Why not ? Coon is better than horse, or mule, or 
 clog. I've tried 'em all. 1 have been here since '49, 
 and I reckon I onght to know ; coon is tlie best thing, 
 for this season of the year, in the world. 1 have just 
 been yearnin' for coon, just been pinin' for coon. Set 
 the table, Carrots." Then, going to the cabin and hold- 
 ing up the coon, and talking to himself, he said : 
 '• Oh, why did you cross my path ? Why wasn't you a 
 deer, or a grouse, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or anything 
 in this world but a horrible, greasy, ring-tailed coon ?" 
 
 '' Poor old ' '49 !' and he loves her and he left her, 
 too. If Charley should leave me lil^e that, I'd — " As 
 Carrie was thus musing alone Devine came up from behind. 
 
 ^^ You'd what, my pretty pet ?" said the young man, 
 as he threw down his pick and specimens and stooped to 
 kiss her. 
 
 ^' Oh, Charley ! Didn't think you was in a thousand 
 miles of here, or 1 wouldn't have been thinkin' about 
 you at all." 
 
 " And really you ought not to think about me. Tm 
 not worth thinking about ; so much trouble — so much 
 trouble," he added, sadly. 
 
 '' Why, what trouble can there be, Charley ? If you 
 love me, and — and I love you, and all this beautiful 
 world is ours to love in, why what trouble can there be ? 
 But I must set the table now." 
 
 Devine kissed his hand to her, and sat on the rocks 
 reading a letter just com.e in from Lawyer Snowe, as she 
 set the table and sang. 
 
 Then suddenly she stopped, and, looking up archly, 
 said: " Oh, Charley, did you hear the news ? Belle and 
 — stop a minute ! Will you take the news a little at a 
 time, or all in a heap ? Well, then, here goes, all at 
 once ! They are to be married to-niglit 1' ^ 
 
so WEARY ! 97 
 
 It was embarrassing news to the yonng miner. 
 
 '' Belle to be married," lie mused, '' to that man ! 
 And what will Snowe think of me f He must have 
 heard it somehow, and that is why he comes, post-haste. " 
 And he again referred to the letter jnst received. 
 
 '' And you used to like her, didn't you ? You used 
 to try to get close to her, and say things, didn't you ? 
 You liked her and she liked the other feller. That's 
 just always the way. Nobody never likes anybody that 
 anybody likes." 
 
 '' I never loved Belle." 
 
 '' You never loved her ?" 
 
 " I did, and 1 did not. Listen : a man with a heart 
 must love something. Love — the love of woman — is as 
 necessary to a real man as the sunlight to a flower. But 
 until a man meets his destiny, reaches his ideal, he must 
 reach out to that which is nearest ; as the vine climbing 
 feebly up to the sun lays hold with its tendrils on what- 
 ever it can, so the heart of a man takes hold of the higliest 
 nature that comes near his, and there awaits its destiny. 
 Jealousy is born of an instinctive knowledge of this 
 truth." 
 
 The girl started away and then came back. " Hey ?" 
 
 " You don't understand ?" 
 
 '' :N'o ; that's all Modoc to me." 
 
 " Well, you will understand some time. So run along 
 now. I am sad, and must sit and think." 
 
 '' All right ! Just so you don't think about Belle." 
 
 "Hello, Charley!" said "'49," with a cheer and 
 tenderness that meant much, as he came stooping out 
 from the cabin, where he had been preparing the coon 
 for dinner. " Whew ! Coon without ingerns, without 
 crackers. 1 ain't seen such times. Carrots, since '40. 
 Them flowers smell so. Carrots ?" 
 
98 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIEKRAS. 
 
 ^' 1 don't smell notliin', except Lucky Tom." 
 
 *' I am as hungry as a wolf, ' '49.' What have you 
 to-day for dinner ?" asked Devine. 
 
 Here Carrots caught up and handed her flowers to 
 Charley. She thrust them in his face for fear he would 
 smell the coon. 
 
 ''I brung 'em — I brunged — I bringed — I — brought 
 'em — from the mountains — away up against God's white 
 snow." 
 
 " And you are His angel, sent down from the shining 
 gates. California flowers ! How beautiful ! When 
 my — what is that 1 smell V ' 
 
 ''Flowers !" 
 
 '' No ! That's the coon," said '' '49," grimly, when 
 he found he could no longer conceal the truth. '' We 
 will have coon for dinner. It is a dinner fit for a king 
 — coon straight !" 
 
 The young man saw their embarrassm.ent, and tried to 
 laugh as he said : " If it tastes as it smells, I am afraid 1 
 don't want any coon straight." 
 
 " Yes, guess it is the coon, Charley ; I thought at 
 first it was the flowers. It smells strong enough. 
 Smells stronger than Lucky Tom," said Carrots. 
 
 "Now, look here, both of you. Just listen to me. 
 Tliere's a certain time in the year, in this peculiar, 
 glorious climate, when you require a change of diet — 
 when you require coon. I have been here since '49. 1 
 reckon I'd ought to know." 
 
 " Of course he knows. He's right. He's always 
 right. I know that coon — is — well, coon is coon, 
 Charley," added Carrie. 
 
 '' Yes, that's a fact. Why, you couldn't get such a 
 dinner as coon straight in New York for love or money. 
 
so WEARY ! 99 
 
 No, not even in London," cried brave old '^ '49 " witli 
 splendid enthusiasm. 
 
 Carrots was busy all this time setting the table. 
 
 '^ There's the salt and the mustard, and where's the 
 pepper? ''49,'" she cried, '^ where's the black pep- 
 per ? Oh, here's the black pepper. And here's the red 
 pepper. And here's the gray pepper." And with 
 stately and graceful ceremony she set each in its place 
 on the rickety old table, singing snatches of old negro 
 songs. 
 
 '^ Black pepper, and red pepper, and white pepper, 
 and gra}^ pepper. Anything else ?" laughed Devine. 
 
 " Yes — yes ! Here's the toothpicks. What mag- 
 nificent toothpicks for this season of the year ! Ding 
 dono^, dins: dono*. First bell." Here " '49" brouo^lit 
 in the coon. 
 
 " Brave little Sunshine, let's make tlie best of it." 
 
 '^ Will you allow me ?" said Devine, and bending 
 down he crooked his elbow and conducted her to the 
 table. 
 
 " It's a grand thing to live in a country where you 
 can get coon whenever your health requires it," said 
 u '49." 
 
 " It is a delicious coon, Charley," replied the girl, as 
 she pretended to eat greedily, holding her head aside, 
 pretending to be afraid lest the pepper should get into 
 her eyes. 
 
 " It is a grand dinner," said '' '49." 
 
 '' Some bread, please," asked Devine. 
 
 ''Eh?" 
 
 " You forgot the bread." 
 
 " 1 didn't forget the bread, Charley. You never eat 
 bread with coon. Coon and bread don't go together. 
 
100 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 Injins never eat bread with their coon. I've been here 
 since '49, and I ought to know." 
 
 '^ But I am not an Indian, and 1 can't eat this coon 
 without bread." 
 
 " You don't expect to get everything — coon and bread 
 — and — everything at once, do you ?" cried Carrots. 
 
 '' But I can't eat this without bread !" exclaimed 
 Devine. 
 
 " Look here ; be a good boy and eat your coon, 
 Charley," urged the old man. 
 
 *' Hungry as I am, 1 can't eat this." 
 
 The old man laid down his knife and fork. Rising 
 slowly and sadly, he said, from the bottom of his brave 
 old heart : 
 
 " Well, then, listen to me. I have done the best I 
 could. 1 tried to hide it all from you, but I can't any 
 more. A good many times, lately, 1 have said I was 
 sick, and I didn't eat. It was because there was not 
 enough for both of us. I wanted you to eat and be 
 strong, so that 3^ou could strike it in the old tunnel. 
 Kow, there is nothin' more to eat. Nothin' more for 
 any one. Charley, more than twenty years I worked on 
 in that old tunnel there — all alone— till you came. I 
 believed every day that I would strike it. All my com- 
 panions are dead, or have made their piles and gone 
 away, j^ll along the long and lonely road of my hard 
 life, I see, as I look back, little grassy mounds — they 
 are the poor miners' graves. I am the last man left. 
 Tlie gi-ass every year steals closer and closer down about 
 my cabin door. In a few years more the grass will grow 
 over that door-sill, and long, strong, and untrodden it 
 will grow in my trail there ; the squirrels will chatter in 
 these boughs, and none will frighten them away — for 
 ' '49 ' will be no more ! And yet, for all that, I have 
 
so WEARY ! 101 
 
 never complained. 1 did believe, and 1 do still believe, 
 we will strike it yet. But now — but now ! If you love 
 me, eat your coon !' ' 
 
 There were tears in Charley's eyes as he cried : 
 
 '' My dear old partner, forgive me. Why didn't you 
 tell me of this before ?" 
 
 * ' If you love me, eat your coon — ' ' 
 
 Carrie looked from one to the other. Her lip was 
 trembling. Tears were on her long, heavy eyelashes. 
 Yet she tried to laugli. 
 
 ''Take a toothpick, then," laughed the girl. And 
 then, suddenly serious : " I didn't mean that, Charley. 
 You shan't be without bread. Here !" and she took 
 the loaf from the basket under the table. 
 
 '' Why, where did you get this ?" 
 
 '' Up there, of her — old Mississip." 
 
 ''Then it's her bread, and wo won't eat it," said 
 '"49." 
 
 " It ain't her bread. It loas her bread, but I stole it, 
 and it ain't her bread any more. I knowed, ' '49,' you 
 had no bread. They've got lots of bread, and I don't 
 care that" — and she snapped her fingers — " for the 
 whole lot. Why, it wasn't nothin', was it, Charley ? 
 If it was, I won't never, never steal any more." 
 
 Charley shook his head. " It was stealing, you 
 know," he said, gravely. "But I am not fit to re- 
 proach you. No ; God knows, not I. That man 
 Gully came to me to-day, taunting me with his good 
 fortune and my misery. He came in that tunnel to 
 taunt me. And there, man to man, I fought him, 
 threw him, weak as I was, ' '49,' and took from him a 
 package of papers. I gave it to her to keep." 
 
 " Why, my boy — what ? What do you say, 
 Charley?" 
 
102 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 " I knocked liim down and took a package of papers 
 from him." 
 
 " Yes, and I'll keep 'em, too !" sliouted the girl, as 
 she struck her breast. 
 
 " Charlej, Charley !" cried '' '49." '' Beware of the 
 Yigilantes ! The conscience of California ! The 
 Vigilantes !". 
 
 '' Well, I'll keep 'em till the cows come home, 
 Yigilantes or no Yigilantes," answered Carrie, sulkily. 
 
 " My poor, poor boy !" said " '49." 
 
 ''Gully is one of the Yigilantes, "49,'" said the 
 girl, suddenly starting up after a moment. 
 
 " Yes, and so merciless ! Give me that package, girl. 
 I will keep it." 
 
 The girl handed him the package, wdiile the yonng 
 man timidly asked : 
 
 " Why, what will you do with it ?" 
 
 '' When they come for it, boy, as they will, I will 
 give it up. Yes, that's right, Charley. That's squar' ! 
 They won't, you know — they won't dare to hurt 9ne. 
 Why, I've been here since '49. They -won't hurt me, 
 boy. I'm old ' '49.' Oh, they w^on't hurt m^." His 
 affected cheerfulness as he spoke was pitiful to see. 
 
 " You take a great load off my shoulders, ' '49.' Let 
 me tell you that I was robbed of those very papers, 
 which made my mission here worse than useless. 1 
 wrote back to the hard old lawyer, and he has answered 
 gruffly that he will come on and tend to the business 
 himself. He may be here. at any moment, and he may 
 find me accused of robbery when he comes." 
 
 '' There, there, pard," cried '' '49." " It's all right, 
 it's all right. N"ow, Carrots, a little song — one of your 
 pretty little negro melodies that you say you was born 
 
so WEARY ! 103 
 
 Just as Carrie was about to sing she glanced down the 
 trail and paused ; her eyes opened to their widest extent. 
 
 '' Tlie Yigilantes !" cried the girl, as she looked down 
 the trail over her shoulder. All started to their feet as 
 they heard a sullen tread. The Vigilantes strode into 
 the yard, Gully at their head. 
 
 " There !" he shouted, as he j)ointed at Devine. 
 '' That's the man that robbed me." 
 
 '' You are the prisoner of the Yigilantes !■ ' said the 
 captain of the company. " Iron him, nien !" 
 
 Here the old miner's voice rang out : 
 
 " Stop ! One w^ord ! You all know me. I've been 
 here since '49. This boy — what do you want ?" 
 
 '' The man who robbed me of my papers," shouted 
 Gully. 
 
 '' We want tlie robber," said the captain, respectfully. 
 
 " Yes, we want the robber. I want my papers," 
 roared Gully. 
 
 The old man snatched the papers from his bosom, and 
 as he held them aloft cried: "Here they are, and — I 
 am the robber !' ' 
 
 "AYhat ! Ycm, old ^'49' ?" 
 
 "Yes, I! Old "49.^"' 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 VIGILANTES. 
 
 The morning must succeed the night. 
 
 All storms subside. The clouds drive by. 
 
 And when again the glorious light 
 
 From heaven's gate comes bursting through, 
 Behold ! The rains have washed the sky 
 
 As bright as heaven's bluest blue. 
 
 The sun next morning burst over tlie mighty Sierra 
 summits to the east, and down into the little mining 
 camp, in possession of the so-called Yigilantes, with a 
 glory and splendor unknown to any other land on earth. 
 What cares nature for the petty battles of 2)oor, schem- 
 ing, plotting, and ever unsatisfied man ? 
 
 Snowe had come j)ost-liaste as he had promised. Tie 
 had established himself for the night, along with old 
 black Sam, in Mississip's hotel,' while '' '49" was kept a 
 prisoner in his own cabin by the Yigilantes, waiting trial 
 for his life. 
 
 '' '49" had not even yet had the heart to reveal himself 
 to his boy. lie would ^' strike it" yet in the old tunnel, 
 and then, with heaps of gold, he would take him to his 
 heart. 
 
 Devine had left " '49," with Carrots at his side, 
 under guard in his own cabin, and sought the shrewd 
 but crabbed old lawyer. The two were returning to the 
 cabin together, where " '49's" trial was to be held. The 
 young man was full of concern. He knevf better than 
 
VIGILANTES. 105 
 
 did the old lawyer how quick, merciless, and cruel are the 
 Vigilantes. 
 
 '' These Vigilantes," he said to Snowe, '^ are blood- 
 thirsty ; I am so afraid he may have to suffer. " 
 
 '^Nonsense. Never fear. I never lost a case or 
 made a mistake in my life. No, sir. Never lost a 
 case," retorted Snowe. 
 
 ''It's fortunate you came. Of course, he has no 
 money to defend himself with. But I tell you he is in- 
 nocent. And rather than see him suffer, I will proclaim 
 myself the guilty party. You will, you 7Rust^ save him. 
 If he dies, I die with him." 
 
 '' Stuff ! gammon ! rubbish ! You've got to live ; go 
 to-night to your mother at the railroad station. Left her 
 there till I could come on and fix up this bother about 
 the heiress. She wants to see you, you young rogue, of 
 course ; only two hours away, but it's awful ' stage- 
 ing.'" 
 
 " Yes, I must see my mother ; poor, dear mother. 
 But y^i^ will save "49 ' ?" 
 
 " Save him ! Of course I will save him. 1 never 
 made a mistake, and never lost a case, I tell you." 
 
 '* Oh, I am so grateful, so thankful you have come," 
 and tears stood in the young man's eyes. 
 
 '' Yes ; you see your mother got alarmed about you 
 when we got your letter. And it did seem to me you 
 had made a fool of yourself. Yes, fool — that's the 
 word. Why, I'd just like to see these Californians twist 
 me around their fingers as they have you. I'd give them 
 law ! law ! ! Yes, sir, law ! And now, let me see this 
 old "49' !" 
 
 And the brusque and blustering old lawyer attem]3ted 
 to enter the cabin. The guards crossed their guns on 
 his breast. 
 
106 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 '^ I am a lawyer ; must see the prisoner ; client of 
 mine. I'm a lawyer — lavvyer. Do yon nnderstand ?" 
 
 " A lawyer, humpli !" muttered the captain. 
 
 '^ Judge Snowe," whispered Devine, ''it is useless 
 to tell them you are a lawyer. Yigilantes never allow 
 lawyers to interfere or even be present at any of their 
 trials." 
 
 The old advocate wns for a moment struck dumb. 
 
 In grim silence the gnard hustled him off down the 
 trail, black Sam limping after him. 
 
 " A lawyer ! He must be a stranger in California. 
 A lawyer to interfere with the Vigilantes ! Why, we'd 
 never get done," muttered the captain, as he turned and 
 began to read some papers. 
 
 " The last hope gone !" sighed Devine, as Gnlly, 
 entering, shook hands and talked aside with the captain. 
 
 " Well, Captain Hampton, I say, bring him out, and 
 give him a fair trial," said the wily villain, w^itli a 
 smirk. 
 
 " You will not, you dare not, take that old man's 
 life I" gasped Devine, aside to Gully. 
 
 " I ? No. Of course I shall not attempt any such 
 thing. The law — the honest miner's law — the law of 
 the Yigilantes must take its course. If a man can be 
 knocked down in this camp and robbed of his property, 
 it's time we knew it." 
 
 " But you know he is not guilty." 
 
 " Listen. You and 1 know a great deal more, per- 
 haps, than eitlier of us care to tell. If this old man pre- 
 fers to die in 3^our place, I am the last man to rob him 
 of that privilege. Yesterday I reached out the olive 
 branch. You chose to knock me down and rob me. 
 He chooses to take the responsibility of your act, trust- 
 ing his gray hairs will save him. Well, I hope they 
 
VIGILANTES. 107 
 
 may. We let him rest all niglit in liis own cabin. We 
 will ffive liim a fair trial now." 
 
 '' You, with your mockery and show of justice, are 
 the devil incarnate," hissed Devine. 
 
 " Bring the prisoner out and place him at once on 
 trial," ordered the captain. 
 
 The guards opened the cabin door ; " '49" came forth 
 from his cabin between the guards, followed by Carrots, 
 weeping. 
 
 '' Pretty hard on the old man, eh, Carrots ?" sneered 
 Gully. 
 
 The girl turned on him suddenly, the fury of a tigress 
 gleaming in her expression. Her hands were clinched 
 and her eyes aflame as she cried : 
 
 '' Kow, look here ; ^ '49 ' never wronged anybody in 
 his life. He didn't rob you. He didn't hurt your head 
 that way, and you know it. You got drunk at your 
 w^eddin' last night, and fell into a prospect hole. Wish 
 you'd broke your neck." 
 
 '^ Have you any witnesses for your defence ?" asked 
 the captain, in kindly tones, to the silent old prisoner. 
 
 ^' Yes, he has!" cried the girl, as Colonel Billy 
 tottered up the trail. 
 
 '' What witnesses ?" asked Gully. 
 
 *' Total wreck !" answered the colonel, taking his 
 place beside " '49." 
 
 '' Hello ! Come back to be hung, have you ? 
 What can you swear to against his open confession?" 
 cried Gully. 
 
 ^^ What do you (hie) require a gentleman to swear to ? 
 I'll oblige you ; nothin' mean about old Colonel Billy 
 (hie) in a case like this." 
 
 '' I tell you, boys," cried Carrots, as she turned and 
 appealed to the miners, " he didn't do it. ^ '49 '.hasn't 
 
108 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 been in that tunnel for a montli. His back's too stiff ; 
 got rlienmatix. Why, he can't stoop down." And 
 liere she bent her neck and reached her face to ^' '49," 
 who had seated himself on a rock, and whispered sharply 
 in his ear : " Say yes. Don't shake your head like that. 
 Yes, he's got rlienmatix so he can't get up when he's 
 down, and he can't get down when he's up. And the 
 idea that he could wliij) that yaller dog there !' ' 
 
 '' Carrots, don't — don't call names," protested '' '49." 
 
 " Well, he is a dog, and a yaller dog at that. And a 
 yaller dog is the meanest kind of a dog. Yes, yaller 
 dogs sucks eggs," shouted the furious girl. 
 
 '' Well, I'm a witness. 1 swear that ' '49 ' didn't do 
 it. I swear that the (hie) yaller dog did it himself," 
 blurted out the colonel. 
 
 "No, no ! It's all right, boys. It's all right. He 
 has been robbed. It was bad, bad. I'm sorry. But 
 he got it back ; and I don't deny it," said '^ '49." 
 
 " But yon shall not suffer for my — my — " interposed 
 Devine. 
 
 " Shoo ! speak low. And listen to me, Charley. In 
 the right-hand corner of the further end of the tunnel — • 
 I saw by the rocks only yesterday that we are on the 
 edge of a vein, a seam, a river of pure gold." 
 
 '^ Bad, bad ! It's in his head again," said the colonel 
 to himself, as he tapped his forehead. 
 
 " My dear old pardner, let ns forget the tunnel," 
 pleaded Devine. 
 
 " Forget that tunnel ? Forget my twenty-five years 
 of life wasted there ! My wife ? My baby in the — " 
 He stopped and shook his head, and then said to him- 
 self : "No, there is no baby there now. The baby is 
 here. Charley, I ha/Ve a favor to ask," he continued. 
 "You will doit?" 
 
VIGILAl^TES. 109 
 
 '' If it costs me my life !" 
 
 *■' No, it's not like that. Yoa go now, riglit now, into 
 the tunnel and bring me the last quartz specimen that 
 fell from your pick — " 
 
 '^ But 1 cannot leave you." 
 
 '' Stop ! You said if it cost you your life. And yet 
 here you refuse to — " 
 
 '^ Forgive me. 1 will go. But whatever happens 
 you shall not die. ' ' And the young man, after wliisper- 
 ing a few words in Carrie's ear, bounded away in the 
 direction of the tunnel. 
 
 " There's a great lawyer come, ^ '49,' " said Carrots, 
 hopefully. 
 
 '^ I don't want no lawyer. I want you to listen to 
 me.^ Carrots." 
 
 " Yes, I am listening all the time. What is it V ' 
 
 " Carrots, in the furtherest right-hand corner of the 
 tunnel — " But the crowd was impatient. The Vig- 
 ilantes were w^aiting, and Gully, who had been con- 
 ferring with the captain, came forward and said : 
 
 '' Well, if you all insist, of course we must proceed. 
 Have you any other witnesses ?" 
 
 '' I have no witnesses but myself, accusing myself." 
 
 '' Yes, you have (hie) plenty of witnesses. I am a 
 standin' witness. 1 swear that I was with ' '49 ' all day 
 yesterday, every minute." 
 
 '' Can you swear to that ?" asked the captain, eagerly. 
 
 '' Certainly (hie) I can, and 1 do." 
 
 '' Hold up your right hand." 
 
 In a loud voice, and holding up his left hand, the 
 colonel testified ; *' I swear that ' '49' and me yester- 
 day—" 
 
 '^ Hold up your right hand." 
 
 The colonel turned around and shifted his old hat 
 
110 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 from right to left, and from left to right, and again held 
 up his left hand. 
 
 '^ I swear — " 
 
 The captain became angry and impatient, and, forcing 
 np his right hand, roughly cried, "^ Will yon be sworn 
 nowf 
 
 '' ^o ; I'll be hanged if I'll be sworn." 
 
 All for a moment was still. Then the captain signalled 
 Gully to tell his story. 
 
 ^' "Well, upon the oath of our Order, I swear that on 
 last evening, I, on this very spot, after I had been 
 robbed, accused a party of robbery, and that this old man 
 drew this package from his breast, which had been taken 
 from me not an hour before, and said he w^as the 
 robber." And, with a great flourish, the pompous and 
 highly-perfumed gentleman threw the papers on the 
 table. 
 
 ^'No, 1 was there. I heard it all, and I swear he 
 never said it," cried Carrots, springing to her feet. 
 
 ''Did you say this ?" asked the captain, kindly, for 
 he preferred " '49's" word to Gully's oath. 
 
 The old man answered, bowing his head, " And I say 
 it now." 
 
 " You hear him ?" shouted Gully, as he stood in line 
 with the Yigilantes. 
 
 Tliere was a silence and a solemnity that were painful. 
 The honest and kindly captain of the Yigilantes, uncover- 
 ing his head, solemnly asked : " What shall be his sen- 
 tence?" 
 
 Death !" answered the first Yigilante, uncovering. 
 Death !" answered the second, solemnly. 
 Death !" said the third, w^ith bowed head. 
 Death !" sadly murmured the fourth. 
 
 I vote for life," said Gully, as the captain called 
 
 (( 
 
 u 
 
VIGILAKTES. Ill 
 
 for Ills vote, " but, you see, mj voice is powerless. The 
 majority rules in our Order." 
 
 '^ I am satisfied," said " '49," calmly. 
 
 " No, no," cried Carrots, appealing to tlie Vigilantes. 
 '^ He is my father, my mother, my all ! If you take his 
 life, you will kill me." 
 
 ''Now just (hie) look at that poor gal," hiccoughed 
 Billy. " Here ! He's some account. If you want to 
 hang anybody hang me. Nobody cares for me. (Hie.) 
 Total wreck ! Total wreck !" 
 
 " Take this man away. He ain't worth hanging," 
 said the captain, impatiently, as he pushed the intrusive 
 comet on in its orbit about the camp. 
 
 '' Pretty low down, boys ; pretty low down (hie) ; 
 ain't worth hangin'. Ain't worth hangin'. Total 
 wreck ! Total wreck !" 
 
 '' But I tell you I will come in ! I ain't a lawyer. 
 No, I ain't. I am a witness. Yes, I am a witness. " 
 And, fighting the obstinate guard with his umbrella, 
 Snowe, with black Sam at his heels, was once more upon 
 the ground. Charley did not go back to the tunnel to 
 seek for the mythical heaps of gold, but found the old 
 lawyer, and persuaded him to return. 
 
 '' Yes," said Sam, getting behind Snowe. " Yes, 
 he's a witness. He ain't no lawyer dis time, he ain't. 
 He's a witness, sah. " 
 
 '' Snov/e, by the seven fiends ! But what of it ? I've 
 got the girl. I can afi:'ord to laugh at them all now !" 
 cried Gully, pale as a ghost and with quivering lips. 
 He had been too busy with his schemes of villainy to 
 perceive the newcomer. 
 
 ''Yes, I'm a witness. Keep me back if you dare, 
 and I'll send the last mother's son of you to State 
 prison. Yes, I'll give you law, law, till you're sick 
 
112 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 of it," shouted the lawyer, with a flourish of his urn- 
 hreila. 
 
 '^ But jou ain't no lawyer — shoo !" whispered Sam in 
 his ear. 
 
 '^ Xo, no ! I'm a witness. '^ He crossed to the table, 
 took out his glasses, and gazed at the papers with a long 
 and curious gaze. Then sniffed the air, took off his 
 glasses, polished the crystals with his coat-tail, and then, 
 doubling them up, took in a long breath. 
 
 It was Gully who was troubled now. 
 
 ^' Great heavens !" he muttered, as he advanced 
 cautiously. ^^ I must get those papers from that table 
 or I am lost." 
 
 ^' No ! I'm a witness !" shouted Snowe suddenly in 
 his startled ear. ^' Not a lawyer ; a witness !" 
 
 " If you will let me have this property of mine — those 
 papers, 1 — " 
 
 " What ! Tom Gully, the villainous Gully !" And 
 Snowe put on his glasses to gaze. 
 
 " Yes, Lucky Tom Gully. Perhaps you will know 
 me when we meet next." 
 
 " Well, I think I shall. . But as I rarely visit State 
 prisons, perhaps we will not meet again soon." 
 
 Gully disdained to answer, but made an effort to get 
 the papers. 
 
 ''Re wants his papers," said '^ '49." "It is but 
 right he gets 'em back. I don't deny it, sir. It's hard, 
 just as we are about to strike it in the tunnel. But, sir, 
 you're a lawyer ; take the tunnel, and see that Charley 
 ain't swindled out of it, sir." 
 
 '' Now you just hold on, ' '49 ' !" cried Carrots. 
 '^ Lawyers is smart. And I hearn tell they can make 
 black things look white sometimes. You jest take 
 them papers, Mister, and see if you can't save ' '49.' 
 
VIGILANTES. 113 
 
 Do, do, do ! Them's the papers that makes all the 
 trouble. " 
 
 Snowe looked at her a moment through his glasses, 
 and then clutched up the papers, as if a bright thought 
 had just entered his brain. 
 
 Suddenly the old lawyer stopped, started, puckered 
 his mouth, and gave a long, low whistle of surprise and 
 delight, and Gully knew that at last the tables were 
 turned, that the game was lost. He snatched up his hat, 
 and turned to go. 
 
 ^' What's your hurry. Store-clothes ?" cried Carrots. 
 
 '' Stop, these are my papers !" roared Snovv^e. 
 " Gentlemen of the jury ! Gentlemen of the villainous 
 Yigilantes' jury ! Mine ! My papers ! There's my 
 name ! My papers, stolen from me by that man." 
 
 '' But lawyers are tricksters sometimes," said the cap- 
 tain, after stopping Gully. 
 
 ''We lawyers are your legislators in peace, your 
 generals in war, and your gentlemen always," and 
 Snowe bowed profoundly. 
 
 '' And these are your papers, you assert, stolen from 
 you by him ?" 
 
 '' My papers, stolen from me by that fragrant and 
 highly-perfumed thief. There ! That's my signature. 
 And there ! That's his odor. Smell him ?" 
 
 " Yes, and it was I who knocked him down in the 
 tunnel yesterday, and took those papers from him," 
 cried Charley, in great excitement. 
 
 '' And it served him right," observed the captain, 
 releasing '"49." 
 
 " Oh, "49 ' ! ' '49 ' and Charley !" cried the liappy 
 Carrots. " 1 want to kiss and hug you both. I'll hug 
 ' '49 ' and kiss Charley !" And she suited the action to 
 the word. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 GNOME-LAND. 
 
 In the e<arth and underground, 
 
 Full a mile or more below, 
 Where the busy gnomes abound, 
 
 Where their strange gold houses grow : 
 
 Where the smoky gnomes sit grum, 
 Kabbit-faced, knock-knee'd, and low ; 
 
 Where the days may never come, 
 Where the nights may never go : 
 
 There with gleaming rod in hand — 
 Smitten rock, an earthquake's shock : 
 
 A stream of gold, a gladdened land ; 
 A Moses and the desert rock. 
 
 But the end was not yet, by any means, witli Gully, or 
 tlie old lawyer, or " '49." Each was still full of pur- 
 pose and endeavor. The old lawyer must find and save 
 ill's heiress. Gully must leave Belle to herself, and save 
 himself in sudden and precipitate flight. And old 
 "'49" must strike it in the tunnel, and with heaps of 
 gold claim his son, and forthwith seek the true and 
 tender woman that ever yet leaned her face in her palm 
 and waited, weeping there, by the mantelpiece. 
 
 With this purpose, " '49" set out the moment he was 
 released, and talking Carrots with him, once more 
 entered the tunnel to test the rotten quartz that had been 
 discovered there. 
 
 Charley followed, with '' '49's" gun. lie felt that 
 
GNOME-LAND. 115 
 
 tliere was still trouble in the air, and that he must not be 
 unprepared. 
 
 He stopped at the mouth of the tunnel, and the old 
 man went on. It had been a bright, warm morning, and 
 the snow was melting upon the mountain. The mouth 
 of the tunnel was dripping more than usuaL The girl 
 saw this, and hesitated to enter. Those born on the 
 border, where life depends on caution, are warj of the 
 elements, and are exceeding watchful. Devine, how- 
 ever, noticed nothing unusual, and the girl was silent. 
 As they lingered there, waiting for they knew not what, 
 looking askance, looking down, starting and coming 
 back, saying little nothings, getting bothered and blush- 
 ing, as lovers will, a rattlesnake slid down the steep, 
 dripping hillside, rattling as he ran, as though fearing a 
 foe that no venom could reach. The young man lifted 
 his gun and shot the reptile through the head. 
 
 Carrie at last, as if playing hide-and-seek, and laughing 
 at her own fears, lowered her pretty head, and, darting 
 forward, disappeared in the dark and forbidding tunnel, 
 while Charley shouldered his gun and sauntered away. 
 
 She reached the old man. He was stripped to the 
 waist. He was wild with excitement and delight. No, 
 he knew it was there ! It could not escape him after all 
 those years. She had never seen him so strong and sup- 
 ple in her life. 
 
 He caught her in his arms and sat her upon a pile of 
 quartz in a corner, and then bowed down at her feet and 
 called her a little queen. He said he had set her on a 
 throne of gold. 
 
 How she cried, and how she clung to his neck and 
 kissed him there ; a half mile away, in the dark and 
 dripping earth, she was thinking of what had just passed. 
 He was thinking of what was to come. 
 
IIG '49, THE GOLD-SEEKEH OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 Then liow they did plan and build their castles of 
 gold ! Building as such castles are always built. For 
 not a particle of gold had as yet been found. 
 
 Charley should know nothing about it ! No, not one 
 word, till he was right certain he loved Carrots almost 
 to death. As if she did not know that already ! 
 
 At last her apron was spread out and filled with 
 quartz, as if it was gold. And '' '49," taking the 
 candle from his hat, filled the old hat, as a boy merrily 
 fills his cap with golden apples ; then, taking the candle 
 in his hand, they started for the mouth of the tunnel. 
 They had to stoop over as they groped along. Now and 
 then the old man would stumble under his load and 
 almost fall. Then Carrie would banter and laugh 
 merrily at his tall figure, which was ill-suited for grop- 
 ing along with a great load. And thus stumbling, fall- 
 ing, laughing, and bantering each other like school-chil- 
 dren, they drew near the mouth of the tunnel. 
 
 Carrie missed a shaft of light, so familiar to them 
 both, as they turned a little angle in the tunnel. But 
 she said nothing. She still tried to laugh, as she 
 stumbled, but it was such a laugh as might come up from 
 a grave. She hastily staggered on a few yards further. 
 She stopped ; then she hurried on, and suddenly found 
 she stood almost to her knees in the cold, muddy water. 
 The girl dropped her quartz with a dull splash, and 
 hastened back to where the old man stood holding up 
 the candle before his eyes and trembhng in every limb. 
 The water had followed her back, and was rising fast. 
 
 She took the candle, which was about to fall from his 
 trembling hand. They looked each other in the face, 
 but neither spoke. They both understood too well the 
 awful truth. 
 
 She turned and waded down the sloping tunnel till she 
 
GHOMR-LAND. 11? 
 
 stood in tlie water to her waist. Tliere was no light, no 
 sound — nothing. The mountain-side iiad sHd down and 
 Giiut them up in a living tomb. No power on earth 
 could roll away the stone'. She felt that they would 
 never, never pass through the mouth of that tunnel any 
 more. She returned to '' '49" and took him by the 
 hand. "Come! come back!" she said; "see, the 
 water is rising fast. ' ' 
 
 "But what can we do back— back there?" pleaded 
 the old man, piteously, as he dropped his quartz and 
 mechanically allowed himself to be led back deeper into 
 the heart of the mountain. 
 
 She did not answer. What, indeed, could they do 
 back there, but sit down and wait an hour, and then — 
 die? 
 
 Both were silent. He was thinking of his boy. Oh, 
 if he only knew ! If he only knew of the gold that was 
 to be his and hers ! 
 
 She was thinking of the green trees above her, as she 
 groped back ahead of the water that slowly crept along 
 the tunnel after her. She was thinking of the flowers — 
 of the flowers she had gathered for liim. She was think- 
 ing of the bright and beautiful sun. 
 
 Ok, but to see the sun again ! Oh, but to look up 
 out of a chasm in the earth, and see a single ray of 
 light ! Oh, but to be a bird ! But to be a squirrel, and 
 leap from limb to lind) ! Now that the world was shut 
 out from her, she remembered how beautiful it was. 
 
 She thought if she could only see a single little flower 
 nodding in the sun, she could sit down and love it, and 
 love it tenderly all her life. 
 
 The old man was dazed — helpless. She led him back 
 to the extreme end, and there they crouched down 
 together to wait. To v/ait for what ? Death ! 
 
118 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 The water came, touclied their feet, their knees, the air 
 escaping through the crevices in the rocks above. The 
 candle burned to its socket, and dropped through the 
 iron ring into the water with a strange cry, as if it died 
 in despair. 
 
 The tunnel was now totally dark. The girl felt 
 about, and drew up from the water and heaped up a pile 
 of rocks in the highest corner. She placed the old man 
 on this, and sat at his feet. The man put out his long 
 bony arms, wound them about her, and drew her as far 
 as he could from out the water. She felt the cold tide 
 touch her bosom, and then she knew that all would soon 
 be over. ' ' Maybe we'd better try to pray. Can you pray, 
 ' '49 ' ? Father, can you pray ? Then pray for Carrie, 
 for she is not fit to die ;" and the girl's heart, for the 
 first time in all her life, began to fail her as she clung to 
 the old man's neck. 
 
 " Child ! that confession is your prayer for us both." 
 And the two drew closer together — closer together in 
 death, even, than they had been in life. 
 
CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 A CLOUD OF DUST. 
 
 Ay, you are stricken ! Yes, I know 
 
 Your wounds are deep. Silent you bleed, 
 
 Alone and mortally. And oh, 
 
 Sweet friend, God knows you need 
 Compassion while j^ou fight and bleed. 
 
 But know, dear, stricken, bowed-down friend, 
 
 The worst that ever may befall 
 
 Is death, which happeneth to all, 
 Dear, honest, high-born death, sweet friend, 
 "While God stands waiting at the end. 
 
 Young Devine had stood a moment leaning on his gim 
 after the girl darted away in the tunnel, thinking of lier, 
 her beauty, her simple truth and sincerity, loving her 
 with all his heart. Then he shouldered his empty 
 weapon and started to the cabin. As he did so, tliere 
 was a crash ! He ran back, and his blood froze with 
 horror as an avalanche from the mountain side thundered 
 down and covered the mouth of the tunnel. The terror 
 that fell upon him at this sight was beyond words. 
 
 The young man almost fell in a swoon. Then remem- 
 bering that the girl was buried there, he tried hard to 
 think what to do. Were they crushed and utterly dead ? 
 Or were they still alive, and doomed to die by inches 
 there ? He looked at the avalanche before him. It would 
 take hours at least to remove it and reach them. 
 
 Suddenly the tli ought of the other side flashed through 
 
120 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OP THE SIERRAS. 
 
 Ills brain — the other tunnel. He remembered the 
 strokes of the pick he had heard so often from that other 
 tunnel — the tunnel of their mortal enemjes. He dashed 
 down at incredible speed and around the point, and 
 reached the mouth of it. 
 
 There was a man washing out a panful of earth down 
 l)y the stream in the edge of the willows. Devine 
 shouted with all his might, but the man did not hear. 
 This was drunken old Colonel Billy. The terror of the 
 Vigilantes had made him prodigiously industrious. He 
 had resolved to reform. So he had not time to hear or 
 look up. 
 
 Devine turned to dash into the heart of the tunnel 
 where he hoped the two men, Dosson and Emens, were 
 at work. 
 
 At that moment these two men were coming out. 
 They were bowed down, loaded down, and were cursing 
 eacli other and quarrelling fiercely. He set his gun 
 against the wall and darted past them. They did not 
 see him, for the sunlight dazed them ; and then they 
 were too deep in their deadly hate. He shouted to them 
 as he ran into the tunnel, but they did not hear. 
 
 They were loaded down with gold. They had struck 
 the vein. And these men were but hardened and 
 embittered by their good fortune. Each wanted it all. 
 Qjie hated the other for the fact that the other should 
 have half of this mountain of gold. 
 
 As Devine groped on, deeper and deeper into the 
 tunnel, he heard a pistol-shot behind him. He won- 
 dered at this. Could they be shooting at him ? Then 
 he rememered that they were in a deadly quarrel. 
 Possibly they were at death-grips. 
 
 He soon reached the end of the tunnel, for it was not 
 nearly so deep and long and crooked as the other, and 
 
A CLOUD OF DUST. 121 
 
 was entranced to find a candle there, still burning in the 
 little iron ring in the wall. He caught up a pick with 
 all the strength and fury of a madman. He dashed his 
 fall force against the wall before him. Water was 
 oozing through ; and under his feet where he stood were 
 sheets and seams of shining gold. 
 
 Again he struck. Again and again. But the wall 
 was a wall of stone. It had no heart. It had stood 
 there thousands of years amid earthquake and tempest. 
 Ylhj should it yield to his prayers ? He flung down the 
 pick and hastened out in utter despair. 
 
 At the mouth of the tunnel there lay Emens, dead. 
 Dosson was gone. The man who had been so listlessly 
 working at the edge of the river was also gone. His 
 great Mexican wooden bowl lay floating in the stream. 
 Old Colonel Billy's hat lay where he had been panning 
 out. Who had killed Emens ? And where was the 
 murderer hidden ? 
 
 The dead man lay there with a bullet through his 
 brain. Heaps of gold were around him. His eyes were 
 wide open. He did not care for this gold now. He lay 
 there staring helplessly up to heaven. 
 
 But Devine had not time to attend to the dead. The 
 living must be looked after. Leaving the gun still lean- 
 ing against the wall, he hastened back again and around 
 to the tunnel of old '^ '49," wild, desperate. He hardly 
 knew what he did now. But the flinty wall before him 
 in the Dosson tunnel had broken his heart Vv^itli its ob- 
 stinacy. Breathless he came to the mouth of their own 
 tunnel where he had last seen Carrie enter. Ah ! for 
 help now from enemy or friend ! But no human being 
 was in sight or hearing. And what had become of Col- 
 onel Billy ? 
 
 Colonel Billy, who had been seen working so Indus- 
 
122 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 trionslj on tlie edge of the willows, near the month of 
 the tunnel, had not heard the hot quarrelling, any more 
 than he had heard the shout of young Devine for help. 
 He was working, not only for bread, but for character, 
 and — drink. He was thirsty, and when he was thirsty 
 he could \vork very hard. He had not tasted whiskey 
 for a half day. He perhaps had not tasted bread for a 
 wliole w^eek. Yet that was not such a hardship. 
 
 But he did hear the pistol-shot. He dropped the 
 great wooden Mexican bowl in the water, and sprang up. 
 He wheeled about, peered forth from the willows, and 
 saw a man reel, fall, and another bend ov^er liim. He 
 saw that this was Dosson. He saw, also, that he had a 
 smoking pistol in his hand. 
 
 He saw Dosson place his hand on the fallen man's 
 heart, then rise up, look around, stoop, and pick up a load 
 of something from tlie ground. 
 
 Then the cautious old colonel, who could not readily 
 forget the lesson he had received, hid back in the 
 willows, while the other stole down to the water, hitclied 
 up his pants, and hastily waded across. He saw this 
 man stoop, look up, down, right, left, and then enter 
 the mouth of an old deserted tunnel that lay there gaping 
 at the sinking sun. 
 
 The man had dropped something when he stopped to 
 liitcli up his pants. Timidly the old colonel stepped out 
 and picked it up. It was gold ! A shining nugget of 
 gold. The earth had opened her stony lips and uttered 
 this. It was as a new-born child to the half-demented 
 old miner. He hugged it to his heart, and started in a 
 run for the saloon. 
 
 He dashed, all breathless, into the den. Old men, 
 young men, miners, loafers, thieves, lay around, loafed 
 on benches, or lounged on barrel-heads and kegs. 
 
A CLOUD OF DUST. 123 
 
 Colonel Billj was out of breath. lie could not 
 speak ; but he thundered the piece of gold down on the 
 pine-board counter, and pecked at his bottle. The gold 
 spoke for him. Poor fool ! Gold to him meant drink. 
 
 With one hand the amazed barkeeper handed forth 
 the fullest bottle, and with the other covered the great 
 glittering specimen, and drew it in toward him. 
 
 Colonel Billy, with trembling hands, filled the tumbler 
 to the brim, and drained it at a gulp. The boys began 
 to wake up. The barkeeper lifted the piece of gold in 
 the air. It was like a rising sun. 
 
 They were awake in an instant, and came rushing 
 forward. 
 
 Colonel Billy still held on to the neck of his bottle. 
 He beckoned to the boys, and as he filled and emptied 
 his glass again, they ranged alongside, and drank Avith 
 haste and precision. 
 
 And again they all drank together. Then they 
 crowded around. They pulled the fast-failing colonel 
 this way and that, and asked questions wildly, almost 
 savagely, as they held on to him. If he did not speak 
 instantly, they would tear the secret from his throat. 
 At last he caught liis breath, and blurted out : 
 
 *' Gold ! gold ! Dosson ! Dosson's tunnel ! Dead ! 
 dead ! dead ! And — and — " 
 
 The old colonel caught at the corner of the counter. 
 Then he clutched at the shoulder of a red-shirted miner 
 as he passed. But no one would stop now. The tide 
 passed out and on toward the tnnnel, leaving only the 
 barkeeper and Colonel Billy, blind-drunk, behind. 
 
 The brave old colonel spun about for a second, as the 
 barkeeper stood behind the counter calmly washing his 
 tumblers, with his eye fastened to the nugget, and then 
 clutching wildly in the air, fell back in a dark corner 
 
124 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 between two barrels, and lay there like a man that wa,s 
 dead. 
 
 The half-drunken mob reached the month of Dosson's 
 tunnel, breathless and wild with excitement. There lay 
 the dead man. There stood the gun. " It's ' '49's,' " 
 they cried. It was his gun. And they had seen his 
 partner, young Devine, with that yevj gun on his 
 shoulder that very hour. Yes, a dozen of them had seen 
 him with that gun on his shoulder as he and Carrots 
 went up toward old *' '49's'' tunnel ! And as he came 
 back, too. 
 
 They took the dead man with them, and the gun. 
 There was something terrible in the anger of this half- 
 drunken mob, as they moved on up past the saloon, 
 after again drinking deeply at the expense of Colonel 
 Billy and the nugget, up to the cabin of ^^ '49," bearing 
 the dead man along. 
 
 ^' They knew it would come to this ! They knew this 
 feud would end in blood ! And then to shoot the man 
 when he had struck it, too !" 
 
 ^' And then to lie at the mouth of the tunnel, and 
 shoot him as he came out from his work." 
 
 '' To shoot him when he was blinded by the sunlight 
 and could not see to fight." These and like sentiments 
 of old-fashioned justice were heard on every side from the 
 mob. 
 
 It was hard. This young man Devine had made few 
 friends. He was a manly man, much like his father in 
 this. 
 
 There are men who go about the world making 
 friends, on purpose to use them. 
 
 There are men who hoard up friends as a mJser hoards 
 up money. There are two kinds of meanness. One is 
 a money meanness, the other is a character meanness. 
 
A CLOUD OF DUST. 125 
 
 There are men very generous with their money, who are 
 as stingy with reputation as it is possible to be. Stop 
 and think of this, and draw a line carefully between the 
 man who makes friends to use and the man who makes 
 friends from his very manhood, as a rich field grows a 
 golden harvest. 
 
 As the mob passed up to '' '49's" cabin, Mississip fell 
 in and cheered it on. Now she would have her re- 
 venge ! 'Now that meddler would get his reward. She 
 chuckled to herself as she thought of the gold, the rich 
 mine which would be all Dosson's and hers, now that 
 Emens was dead. Emens dead ! She wanted to hug 
 the young man for killing him. But this young man 
 must die, too. She would make a clean sv/eep of all. 
 And if only that girl could be brought into it likewise ! 
 How she hated her ! This girl was growing more beau- 
 tiful every day. She was more beautiful than Belle, 
 and she hated her as never before. 
 
 The mob laid down the dead man at the door, and fell 
 back a little, in conference. Then it was that the 
 strongest and boldest minds in that rude assembly came 
 to the surface and stood at the head. They organized in 
 one moment. 
 
 As young Devine had come again to the mouth of 
 61 '49'g" tunnel, this living tomb, he perceived that the 
 water was oozing, spouting, and bursting, and that the 
 mass of earth was moving. It was perilous to approach 
 alone, so he turned and hastened back for help. As he 
 approached the cabin he found himself a prisoner. 
 
 A tall, bearded man lifted his slouch hat, and said to 
 Devine : 
 
 '' You are accused of murdering this man. You are 
 to be tried for 3^our life ; tried now. This is our wit- 
 ness," pointing to the dead. " Where is yours ?" 
 
CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 
 
 A little bird flew quickly out, 
 And, singing, circled sharp about, 
 
 Then back, deep hiding in its tree ; 
 And there, as if the whole world heard, 
 The sweet-voiced, fluttered little bird 
 
 Began its morning minstrelsy. 
 
 Fire is not nearly so terrible an element for good or 
 ill as water. This every old miner knows too well. 
 The pent-up water drives everything before it. Let it 
 once accumulate its forces and even the mountain 
 must yield. 
 
 When the flood in '' '49-s" tunnel had reached the 
 girl's neck, and while she was bravely holding up her 
 old friend to the last, she suddenly felt the waters begin 
 to recede. Then there was a burst as of thunder, and, 
 like an outgoing tide, the flood turned, and the two, with 
 prayers of gratitude too deep and holy for words, rose 
 up and groped their way to the blessed light, the birds, 
 the flowers, the far, fair sky — God. 
 
 *' '49'' still held in his hand one little fragment of 
 quartz as they slowly staggered on toward the cabin, drip- 
 ping and drying in the hot overhanging sun. He lifted 
 it up, looked at it long and eagerly. Then, with a deep 
 sigh, he threw it away. No sign of gold yet. He must 
 still wait a while before he takes his boy to his heart. 
 
 Busy with his own plans for discovering and saving 
 
OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 127 
 
 Ill's heiress, and knowing lie would be detained an in- 
 definite time at Sierra, the shrewd old lawyer, Snowe, 
 after the trial of '' '49," had left Charley to his own 
 pursuits, and had sent for the youth's mother to come to 
 Sierra that evening. It was now clear to the Vigilantes 
 that he was indeed a lawyer, so he was not permitted to 
 appear for the young man or to say one word in his 
 defence. He was allowed, however, to tell him that his 
 mother was coming, and would soon be at his side. 
 
 When the chief of the Yigilantes had laid his hand on 
 the young man's shoulder and told him he must be tried 
 for murder, Devine did not speak. His face was lifted 
 to the mountain before him. Far up beyond, and around 
 the brow of a pine-topped peak, curved and corkscrewed 
 the stage road. There was a cloud of dust dimly visible 
 in the sunset. The stage was descending to the camp. 
 ' ' Have you any witnesses V ' 
 The young man started, then answered : 
 ^' Why, everybody knows 1 would not do this. There 
 is my partner, ' '49 ' ; he has been with me all the time 
 since 1 came here." 
 
 " Has he been with you to-day ? Every minute ?" 
 *' Yes, every second !" shouted '' '49," who was lost 
 in bewilderment. '' '49 " was a hero — a man who could 
 die for another. True, not of that loftiest race of 
 heroes — men who deem a lie worse than death. LettinP* 
 go the doorpost, and limping over to Charley, he said to 
 himself, '' You don't get anything against Charley out of 
 me, Mr. Yigilantes. Not if 1 know myself, you don't ! 
 And I've been here since '49." 
 
 '' Well, we seldom swear respectable men in our 
 courts. But, as you are his partner, 1 think I will swear 
 you. Take off your hat, and hold up your right hand, 
 Kow be sworn." 
 
128 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 The old man took off his hat, held his two hands 
 high in the air, and began, eagerly. 
 
 " Well, he stopped wiih me here all yesterday ; he 
 slept with me all last night ; he has been with me all to- 
 day. There !" 
 
 '' But will yon be sworn ?" 
 
 ^^ I've got nothing ]nore to swear to. 1 didnH hear 
 him say notliin' at all — not one word about killin' any- 
 body.'' 
 
 *' But will you be sworn ?" 
 
 *' 'Ive got nothin' more to swear to, I tell you. I 
 swore to everything 1 know." 
 
 ' ' Will you be sworn ?' ' repeated the Yigilante. 
 
 *' Yes ! He Tvorked in the tunnel yesterday. He 
 slept with me last night. He ate breakfast with me this 
 mornin'. He has been with me all day to-day. 
 There !" 
 
 '' But will you swear to that ? Can anybody swear to 
 that?" 
 
 '' If anybody swears to that will that save him ?" 
 
 '^ Yes. If anybody can swear to that it will save 
 him," was the solemn reply. 
 
 ''Well, 1 can !" cried Carrots, eagerly; and lifting 
 her face, with clasped hands, the girl cried : ''By the 
 good God, I swear Charley slept with ' '49 ' last night ! 
 He stayed with him yesterday. He has been with him 
 all day, and — " 
 
 '' Carrie ! Carrie ! it is not true ! You will go to the 
 bad world for this !" protested young Devine, in a hoarse 
 whisper. 
 
 " Well, then, 1 dare to go to the bad world !' ' retorted 
 the frenzied girl, as she sprang up and seized his hand 
 and attempted to lead him back into the cabin away from 
 the crowd. 
 
OUT OF THE DARKN-ESS. 129 
 
 '' There ! That's all right ! It's all right now. 1 
 swore to all they wanted, I did," she cried. 
 
 But w^hy detail the sad conclusion. From the first 
 Devine was doomed. 
 
 It was of no avail. The man was sentenced to die. 
 
 As the Yigilantes stood with uncovered heads while the 
 leader pronounced the ghastly death -sentence. Colonel 
 Snowe came up the trail, a lady on his arm. This lady 
 was travel- worn and covered with dust. The Yigilantes, 
 rough and immovable as they were, did not refuse to 
 allow a lady to approach. They were silent and respect- 
 ful as the woman entered their lines. Behind the 
 colonel and lady lingered the old negro, with head as 
 white as wool. The young man did not see the party. 
 He was still looking the other way ; looking at the 
 mountains ; looking for his mother — that mother who 
 was to arrive but to kiss his lips ere they ^ould be sealed 
 in death. 
 
 Who has not seen a child waiting for mother to come ? 
 Nothing but mother will satisfy it. All the gold, all 
 the good things of earth — a king's praise, the smiles of a 
 queen, diamonds, laces, and lands — all are as nothing 
 compared to one word, one look from her — from mother ; 
 and though plain, and haggard from toil, pale from 
 hunger, weak and withered — God bless the mothers, 
 every one ! 
 
 But here was a man — a strong man — waiting for 
 mother. He was sentenced to die. But somehow his 
 old child-feeling came over him now. He wanted to 
 see mother. He waited for mother ; he wanted only 
 mother. 
 
 The old red-faced monster that hovered on the edge 
 of the mob, inciting it, waiting for Dosson, wondering 
 where he was all tlie time, expecting him every moment, 
 
130 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 SO that slie might share the joy of re\^enge with him — 
 this creature pushed her way up to the strangers, and, 
 with grinning and leers, told them in brief, and after a 
 barbarous fashion, the bitter and awful chronicle. 
 
 The distracted mother, with a wild shriek, caught her 
 son in her arms. Then, as old '' '49" shrunk back, 
 helpless, half -crazed from the unendurable excitements 
 and scenes of the day, the mother turned to the leader 
 of the Yigilantes, who stood with his hat in his hand, 
 his head bowed before her. 
 
 "It is my boy," began the woman, holding her dar- 
 ling's head to her breast, and then putting it back, kissing 
 him, and looking him in the face. " It is — it is my 
 boy, my Charley." 
 
 " Mother," gasped the youth, " you find me ashamed 
 to lift my head. I tried to get on, mother. I did 
 reform. I went to work ; I worked night and day. 
 Mother, I did reform ; but all — all was against me !" 
 
 " Why did you do this thing ?" said Snowe, bitterly, 
 while "'49,' ' from his retreat back on the edge of the mob, 
 craned his neck, and listened as only such a sorrowing 
 man could. He felt assured that his son had killed this 
 man ; and he felt, too, that the dead man deserved 
 death. 
 
 " Why did you do this thing ?" urged Snowe. 
 
 " I swear before Heaven I did not. I am as innocent 
 as my dear mother here," replied Charley, his head 
 proudly erect. 
 
 " I know you are innocent ! I know you are inno- 
 cent. You shall not swear to me that you are innocent. 
 I Icnow it. Lay your head on my breast and rest, my 
 tired, heart-broken boy. They shall not touch you now 
 — no more now ! No more, no more, no more !" wailed 
 the agonized mother. 
 
OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 131 
 
 '' Oil, mother, 1 am so glad yon liavc come ! Bnt 
 see ! What will tliey do with me ? Oh, mother, 1 have 
 waited and waited for you ! But see ! They want 
 me !" cried Devine. 
 
 *' Nothing — nothing shall harm you. My boy, all will 
 be well ! But now come away. You look so wretched ! 
 You must have some clothes ; you must rest, and then 
 you will tell me all about these great mountains, and we 
 will go home together, and we will have a splendid time 
 together, Charley. " 
 
 " 1 tried to make money, mother, so as to come back 
 to you, and take care of you," he said, trembhngly. 
 
 '' Yes — yes ; come along, Charley, and never mind 
 the money. Let us get out of these mountains, my dear, 
 dear boy. Come along. Never mind. Leave every- 
 thing. If I only have you, 1 am happy." And the 
 poor mother tried to lead him awa3^ 
 
 '' He must remain," protested the captain, mildly. 
 
 The woman held her boy to her breast, and pressed 
 his head down to her shoulder, and stroked his hair ten- 
 derly as she said : 
 
 " But, sir, you know he is my boy. lie is my son — 
 my only son. Why, sir, I have come all the way to Cali- 
 fornia, and into these wild mountains, to find him, to see 
 him, sir, and now — " 
 
 '' But he is accused of crime ; and, madam, 1 am very 
 sorry, but he must remain." 
 
 '^ But, sir — but, sir — Stand close to me, Charley, 
 close to your mother, Charley — You know, sir, I for- 
 give him. He may have been a little bit wild, sir, but 
 he will not be so any more. I am his mother ; he is my 
 son — my only child, sir. Oh, he is so good and so true ! 
 He was always so kind to his mother ; you would have 
 loved him for that, I know. Sir, do not keep us here. 
 
132 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 You see lie is so weak — he is hungry ; he is faint and 
 famishing. Come, Charley, come ; come away." 
 " Madam, he cannot come." 
 " And why can he not come with his mother V ' 
 " He is convicted of a crime, and must die." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 PURE GOLD. 
 
 What though, on peril's front you stand? 
 
 What though through lone and lonely ways, 
 With dusty feet, with horny hand, 
 
 You toil unfriended all the days, 
 
 And die at last of man's dispraise ? 
 
 Would you have chosen ease, and so 
 Have shunned the fight ? God honored you 
 
 With trust of weighty v/ork. And oh ! 
 The Captain of the Heavens knew 
 His trusted soldier would prove true. 
 
 The "Vigilantes make sliort work of what they take in 
 hand. A few hours for prayer, farewells, and that is 
 all they allow to those whom they condemn to death. 
 
 Devine sat in tlie cabin alone, under sentence of 
 death, while the guard at the door paraded solemnly up 
 and down. The young man arose and walked to and 
 fro, and muttered to himself : 
 
 " And so 1 must die ! Oh, it is fearful, and 1 inno- 
 cent — innocent ! Poor mother ! Poor, broken-hearted 
 mother ! That last farewell- — it will kill her," and the 
 wretched youth groaned in mental agony. " 1 am to be 
 shot — shot to death at dawn, and these are my grave- 
 clothes," said the man, bitterly, as he stood before the 
 habiliments of death — a black cloak and hat. 
 
 The Yigilantes had again turned tliis old cabin into a 
 prison. They had taken up the dead man's body from 
 before the door, and laid it in a grave. They had, in- 
 
134 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 deed, dug two graves — one for the dead, one for tlic 
 living. 
 
 There was a parley at the cabin door, and then the 
 old miner, '^ '49," bowed, trembling, crushed, came 
 tottering in. 
 
 ' ' My boy, my poor lone boy, ' ' he began ; ^ ^ you must 
 not die now. We will strike it in the tunnel. Gold ! 
 gold ! Heaps of gold ! Enough for your poor mother ! 
 Enough for us all ! Enough for the world !" 
 
 '' Poor old man !" thought Charley, tears in his eyes. 
 " 1 knew that that tunnel would turn his head at last. 
 When I am laid below the sod, he, the last of the grand old 
 men of the Sierras, will wander about the land, a tramp, 
 a homeless, helpless old man, still talking of that tunnel." 
 
 ^' If anything happens to me, and if you — if you do 
 get out of this, promise me that you will go back to the 
 tunnel once more," pleaded the old man. '' Promise 
 me that you will go back there yourself, though it be 
 years and years. For there, in the right-hand corner — 
 in the right-hand corner of the tunnel — " 
 
 " Please, my dear old partner, be calm," gently inter- 
 posed Devine. " My dear old friend, this trouble has 
 shaken your mind. But be calm, in these my last 
 moments. To-morrow — to-morrow you can talk of your 
 tunnel. Ah ! as the old song ran, ' We will all reform 
 to-morrow ! ' " Then he said to himself ; " And where 
 will I be to-morrow ?" 
 
 '' But," persisted '' '49," " I tell you we will strike 
 it ! It's no time to die nov\^." 
 
 He had not yet heard of the mass of gold discovered 
 on his lode, only a few feet away from where his pick lay 
 rusting in the tunnel. Who to tell him of it ? Califor- 
 nians knew how to keep such secrets. If he had only 
 known of it, how quickly he would have clasped wife 
 
PURE GOLD. 135 
 
 and 1)0/ to iiis bosom, and langlied attlie claims of others 
 to his gold. 
 
 But the boy was not tiiinkmg of gold. '^ And Carrie ? 
 Where is Carrie ?" he said. " I am to die. I am to be 
 shot to death at dawn. Why could she not have come to 
 me ? She, of all, to stay away at such a time as this." 
 
 A sob close behind " '49," and he folded the loving 
 girl in his arms. 
 
 " 1 gathered them in the dark, and in the moonliglit 
 on the mountain," sobbed the poor child, handing him 
 a lieap of flowers. " I thought you would like to have 
 some, you, who love flowers so. Why, you look 
 awful nice, don't you ? But I wouldn't have put them 
 on ; 1 should have died ragged and wretched, like — like 
 your poor, ragged, wretched, little Carrie." 
 
 Taking her apron from her eyes, she saw the black 
 cloak and hat. 
 
 " Why, what are these for ?" she cried. 
 
 " To die in," answered the young man, bitterly. 
 
 ^' To die in ? Oh, here in these pure white moun- 
 tains, what is so hard as man ?" and she bowed her head 
 and wept bitterly. 
 
 It was already growing gray in the east. The hour of 
 execution had come. There was a trampling of feet and 
 a sound of voices at the door. Then some men with 
 guns entered, one of whom informed the prisoner that 
 his last hour had arrived. The leader of the party 
 turned to the girl and said : 
 
 '^You must come away. We are ordered to bring 
 you away at once. 1 will allow you one minute only. " 
 
 The girl still refused to go. She threw herself into 
 the young man's arms, and, in a whirlwind of grief, 
 shrieked : " You shall not die ! ' '49,' save him ! Save 
 him ! I will not go if you do not promise to save him ! 
 
136 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 Promise me ! Say yon will save liim ! Say you will — 
 you will. Say you will save liim or die !" 
 
 A moment's pause. 
 
 " I — I — 1 will save liim — or die !" said tlie old man, 
 solemnly. 
 
 " You have promised." 
 
 ''1 have promised," the words coming slowly and 
 solemnly as the sound of a death-bell. 
 
 '' You will keep that promise V 
 
 '' 1 will keep that promise." 
 
 " Come, come," urged the guard, dragging her away. 
 ^' Ah, my dear old partner ! Think no more about the 
 promise," cried Devine. ^' You are absolved from a 
 promise made as that was made." 
 
 '' If ever you do get out of this, go back to the 
 tunnel ; in the right-hand corner of the main drift — ' ' 
 
 '^ My dear old friend, forget that tunnel for a 
 moment. Do you know that 1 am to die in less than 
 half an hour ? Let us talk a little of the better world, 
 for I am now done — utterly done — with this — " 
 
 ^' But there, in the right-hand corner — " 
 
 Young Devine took the old man's hand tenderly as 
 he sat on the edge of the bed, and, looking in his face, 
 said : '' My friend, stand by my side but a few moments 
 more. I feel the sands crumbling from under my feet 
 as 1 walk by the ocean of eternity. 'No — no, my friend, 
 do not feel so sadly, do not weep. 'Tis but a puff of 
 smoke, and all is over. The sun will rise to-morrow just 
 the same. The world will take its daily round of rest or 
 strife, just as before. But 1 — but 1 will take no part or 
 place in anything that is. For 1 — I shall rest — rest — rest. ' ' 
 
 " Oh, that I could die for you ! You ! So young ! 
 So full of life, and health, and heart, and hope," 
 groaned '' '49." 
 
PURE GOLD. 137 
 
 '' No ; consider wliat I shall escape. I shall escape all 
 the ills and heartaches that lie between this and old acre. 
 And it will not be long before you all will follow me. 
 In a little time, one by one, you will seek some quiet 
 resting-place where other poor weary mortals rest ; 
 and there, grouped together on some hill-top, you will 
 rest, caravans of the dead, waiting the great aw^akening. 
 See, my old friend, we are all — all under a sentence of' 
 death. I am to be- shot at daylight ; you have a few 
 days of reprieve. ' ' 
 
 The old man began once more. " But it is hard to 
 have to die now when we must strike it. In the 
 furtherest right-hand corner of the tunnel, Charley — " 
 
 '' Poor ' '49 ' !" .cried Charley. '' Twenty-five years 
 of disappointment, and then this trouble ! His head is 
 turned utterly. When I am dead, he wiU wander around 
 California, talking of his tunnel. They will set dogs on 
 him — the new, rich people. They vv^ill set dogs on this 
 grand old relic of '49. But it won't last long." 
 
 ^Notwithstanding all the bloodthirstiness and brutality 
 of the Vigilantes — for I am not one of those who deify 
 mobs under this name or any other — they displayed a 
 sort of dignity and decorum in all that they did. They 
 invariably required a man's real name. They were 
 savagely in earnest. They always wanted to hang a man 
 imder his real name. They had asked for and had the 
 name of this young man, Charles Devine. They had 
 written it down, and when the guard came to take him 
 to the place of execution, the captain took the book from 
 his belt, opened it, held it up and out toward the eastern 
 gray dawn, and, with some effort, read softly a name. 
 Then arranging his men on either side of the open cabin 
 door, he again slowly read the name. It looked as if this 
 officer was glad of any excuse for delay. He stood wait- 
 
138 
 
 ing the full dawn now. He waited so long at tlie door 
 that tlie young man lay down to rest and meditate on tlio 
 bunk back in tlie corner. Soon all was still. 
 
 At last lie peered in at the door which he had pushed 
 open. It was still very dark inside. He sav/ a figure 
 standing ready. It was muffled in the black cloak,, with 
 a black hat drawn low over the face. 
 
 The little calico curtains back in the corner w^ere 
 closed. The dog had been taken away by the Vigilantes, 
 for fear, at the last moment, he might put in some sort 
 of protest, and there was nothing to be seen in the dark 
 little cabin save this one silent figure standing there ready. 
 
 ^' Charles DevineT' 
 
 ^^Here!" 
 
 And with a hrm step the muffled figure marched 
 forth, took its place between the lines of Vigilantes, and 
 in the dim dawn moved hastily and silently away to the 
 place of execution. 
 
 -X- * -5f 4f -Jt * 
 
 A fresh-dug grave among the green pines on the 
 hillside. A rude coffin beside the grave. The crowd is 
 held back, and will be held back by the Vigilantes till 
 all is over. Then they may come, or pass by and look 
 upon the dead man's face. The shrill, harsh voice of 
 that monstrous woman, Mississip, can be heard, now and 
 then, in the gray dawn, calling for Dosson. Her laugh 
 — that wicked laugh of hers, as she gloats over her re- 
 venge — can be heard, and she talks to the mob that is 
 waiting for the crack of the rifles before they can pass the 
 guard to see the dead man in the coffin. The far peaks 
 are tipped with gold. It is dawn in the valley, and yet 
 not daylight. There is light, but it is as if a sheet of sil- 
 ver shone in your eyes. Nature is not yet wide awake. 
 
 The guard enter the clearing, a man in black between 
 
PURE GOLD. 130 
 
 tliem. The man falls on his knees by the coffin. Then 
 he rises np, takes a seat on the coffin, folds his arms 
 above liis lieart, and signals that lie is ready to die. 
 
 A line of men armed with rifles is drawn up before him. 
 The captain of tlie Vigilantes stands at the head of the 
 line. There is not even the chirp of a bird. It is some- 
 thing like that fearful silence that precedes earthquakes. 
 
 At last the captain takes out the book, and reads the 
 sentence and the name. Then arranging his men in line 
 he steps back and says : 
 
 ^' Gentlemen of the Yigilantes, you are now to enforce 
 the sentence of death. You will aim directly at the 
 heart. All of your guns are loaded except one. One 
 only is not loaded with ball ; but no man knows which 
 one that is. You will make ready !" 
 
 All these executioners are in black masks. All are 
 silent as death. The captain turns to the prisoner : 
 
 " Charles Devine, you were arrested for murder, con- 
 victed of murder, and are now about to die for that 
 crime. Invoke your God." 
 
 The man on the coffin only bows his head. 
 
 '' Make ready, men !" 
 
 The men lift their guns, and there is an ominous and 
 terror-striking click. 
 
 " Blindfold the prisoner !" 
 
 A man advances with a handkerchief, and bending 
 over the prisoner a second, he springs back, exclaiming : 
 
 ^' It is not Charles Devine !" 
 
 ^'Kot Charles Devine?" 
 
 ^'^o. It is ' '49' !" 
 
 The man on the coffin struggles to his feet, and cries : 
 
 '' It is Charles Devine ! I tell you it is Charles 
 Devine ! Fire ! I tell you lam Charles Devine ! I've 
 been here since '49, and I guess I ought to know. Fire. " 
 
CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 The Past has gone as the Present will go, 
 
 And the Future we know not of ; 
 But ever the Present seems filled with woe, 
 
 And ever the Past with love. 
 
 The captain of the Yigilantes was sadly troubled. xLg 
 at first rejoiced at what had haj^pened. But then the 
 big, weighty word '' duty" was there confronting him. 
 
 '' Bring the real prisoner here at once to execution !" 
 he gloomily said. 
 
 The guard hastened to obey. 
 
 They found the young man sleeping like a babe, as if 
 no trouble had ever come to him. He did not know 
 what had happened, but rose up and went with the 
 guard to death, as if they had now come for him for the 
 first time. 
 
 Colonel Billy had been forgotten. And what was 
 there about him worth remembering ? 
 
 The rougher element of the camp had missed their 
 leader, and they kept wondering what had become of 
 Dosson. Had he fled for fear that this desperate 
 stranger would murder him, too ? 
 
 Let us return to the bar-room, where Colonel Billy 
 had '' set up" the drinks. 
 
 The barkeeper, like all good barkeepers, had kept 
 bravely at his post. In the mines the saloon is the 
 wheel-house— the barkeeper is the captain at the wheel. 
 
THE HEIRESS. 141 
 
 Just before dawn this barkeeper was startled from his 
 sleep between two blankets behind the counter by cries 
 that came from the dark among the barrels. 
 
 '' Oh, oh, oh, such a dream ! Oh, my head ! my 
 head ! my head ! Oh, such a dream !" 
 
 The barkeeper sprang up, and holding a candle under 
 the red nose of the man, as he tried to raise himself be- 
 tween the barrels, shook him by the shoulder till the old 
 teeth rattled in their gums. 
 
 '' Billy, Billy, Billy ! You old idiot." 
 
 '' Oh, such a bloody dream I Dosson shoots Emens, 
 gits the gold, scoots across, hides in the old tunnel, and 
 I gits a nugget with blood on it, and — " 
 
 '' Dosson shoots Emens ! Get up, you fool ! A man 
 will be shot for your drunkenness ! Get up, or I'll brain 
 you with the candlestick." 
 
 The barkeeper loved Belle. Therefore, if for no 
 other reason, he hated Dosson to the death. lie poured 
 a pint of rum down the hoarse, raw throat of Colonel 
 Billy, and throwing on his clothes, and clutching two 
 pistols, he dragged the colonel after him. There was no 
 time to be lost — the bar, for once, must take care of itself. 
 
 In a few moments they reached the mouth of the old 
 abandoned tunnel. All was diirk and silent. But by 
 the dim dawn they could see broken weeds underfoot. 
 Some one had entered it. Old Colonel Billy wslq 
 made wide awake by the rum, and now, comprehending 
 the situation, proved invaluable. 
 
 The pair entered the tunnel, one holding a candle, the 
 other two cocked pistols. This was a dangerous and a 
 stupid thing to do. They should have laid siege at the 
 mouth of the tunnel and waited. Yet now there was no 
 time to wait. 
 
 Turning round a big boulder that lay near the 
 
142 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 entrance, tliey beheld Dosson asleep against tlie granite 
 wall. The man was helpless as the dead man he had 
 left lying down yonder at the mouth of the tunnel. 
 
 The murderer opened his eyes. He looked into the 
 ugly muzzles of two lifted j)istols. He, even in his 
 sleep, clutched and held a pistol, with its one empty 
 chamber, as he waited for the last man to disappear from 
 the trail before he ventured to escape. 
 
 But he had been overtaken by sleep. Now all was 
 over. What a persistent and all-pursuing officer is sleep ! 
 
 He begged for his life. He told of the gold. He 
 would give them each one quarter, and they would be 
 the richest men in the Sierras. 
 
 His captors shook their heads. He would give them 
 two thirds — all ! 
 
 The two men, at a run, marched this strong and 
 desperate murderer between them toward the place of 
 execution. With pointed pistols, they pushed in upon 
 the Yigil antes just as young Devine was brought up 
 from the cabin where he slept. 
 
 The Yigilantes were first awe-stricken, then furious. 
 
 Had not they themselves almost been murderers ? 
 Tliey now treated young Devine as tenderly as if he had 
 been a child. 
 
 Against the red-handed ruffian now before them, their 
 rage, though smothered, was fearful. As the captain 
 pointed at the coffin, the open grave, Dosson's knees 
 began to knock together. He saw a yawning grave wait- 
 ing to receive him. 
 
 The Yigilantes exchanged glances. They understood 
 each other's thoughts, and Dosson understood them, too. 
 He took his place on the coffin. Clear, sharp, and 
 deadly the rifles rang out. 
 
 The crowd nov/ came pressing on — the distracted 
 
THE HEIRESS. 143 
 
 motlier to receive the dead body of her boy, the monster 
 Mississip to look down upon his dead face and gloat over 
 her revenge and the agony of the girl Carrots. This 
 miserable creature came on ahead of all. But the cap- 
 tain, in mercy, turned her aside. 
 
 Once more the loving mother held Charley, her boy, 
 to her heart. Every man uncovered his head. Some 
 turned aside, and pretended that the new-risen sun hurt 
 their old eyes, causing them to water. 
 
 Old '' '49," wild and half crazed, suddenly shrieked : 
 
 '^ I tell you, we have struck it ! " 
 
 Old Colonel Billy had elbowed his way to the old man, 
 and had forced a gleaming piece of gold in his hand, 
 whispering the truth in his ear. 
 
 " Heaps of gold !" said '' '49." '' Ila, ha ! Gold 
 enough to pave the streets of a city ! See there — and 
 there — and there ! Tons of it ! Ha, ha ! Tons of it 
 as rich as that ! What did I tell you ? 1 knew it was 
 there — I knew it was there for twenty-five years ! And 
 now ' '49 ' is a millionaire, and them two burglars that 
 w^ere breaking into his mine are dead — dead, as they 
 deserved ! And you, Charley, my boy, you are my pard. 
 Tons of it— tons of it, just Kke that !" shouted '"49." 
 
 All at once the old man seemed to begin to grow calm 
 and to understand. He passed his hand across his brow, 
 and seemed to see a new light. He approached close to 
 his son and looked strangely into his face. Suddenly 
 his eyes brightened with intelligence and love. Leaning 
 forward and grasping a hand of the son and the motlier 
 in his, he sang, in a wild, strange, and far-away voice : 
 
 " Then sing the song we loved, love, 
 When all life seemed one song ; 
 For life is none too long, love, 
 Ah, love is none too long." 
 
144 *49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 '^ I am your father," he cried to the youth. '' I am your 
 husband!" he cried to the tearful woman. ''Come!" 
 
 Of a verity, the new-risen sun or something was hurt- 
 ing the eyes of the Vigilantes as the crowd moved away 
 down the hill toward the tavern, for they drew their 
 sleeves across their eyes, and blinked and stumbled as 
 they walked. 
 
 Belle came curiously along, and stood in the crowd 
 that lingered at the cabin door. She and Carrie both 
 seemed frightened and out of place. 
 
 Charley felt a little hand pulling at his sleeve, and he 
 heard a little timid voice say, " Good-by, Cliarley." 
 
 "What do you say, Carrie ?" and he turned to the 
 child. 
 
 "1 am so glad you are rich. And dear, good old 
 ''49,' too. You are both all right now," and she 
 turned to go. "And so, good-by ! good-by !" But 
 her heart was breaking. 
 
 " Good-by, ' '49 '—father ! Good-by ! I am as glad 
 — yes, 1 am as glad that you have struck it at last as if I 
 had found a new flower. Good-by ! good-by !" 
 
 "Why, Carrie! Carrie! where are you going?" 
 asked Charley. 
 
 " I'm going away — I'm going far away." 
 
 " What are you talking of ? You are not going away 
 now. Why, if you leave me, there will be no sunlight 
 in the mountains any more," he said. 
 
 " I'm afraid of your mother, and him, that crabbed 
 old lawyer, and all of them. Then what can I be to you 
 now ?" 
 
 " You can be my wife ? you, Carrie — you, and you 
 only." 
 
 " Struck it ! Struck it, Charley ! You have struck 
 pure gold !" says old " '49," cheerily. 
 
THE HEIRESS. 145 
 
 '' All ! that 1 have, father." 
 
 The mother took the sun-browned little waif of the 
 mountains tenderly by the hand. But the girl, realizing 
 the gulf that yawned between them, was again turning 
 away. 
 
 "Stay yet one moment," said the lawyer; '''your 
 work may be done, but my work is only now begun. 
 The heiress ? Charley, you must assist me here." 
 
 " Well, there's little to be said or done. There is 
 your heiress," and he pointed to Belle. 
 
 " True, sir, true. Yet I must now prove to myself, to 
 the law, to the world, that this is really she. Call black 
 Sam ; let him approach slowly, and sing his old planta- 
 tion songs. Sir, I never made a mistake or lost a case. 
 Come here, ' ' added the lawyer to Belle. ' ' Please 
 stand here. Now you shall hear a little song — a sweet 
 melody, that will remind you of other days." 
 
 Sam leaned forward on the edge of the crowd, tapped 
 his foot on the ground, slapped his hand on his knee, 
 and sang in a low, sweet voice : 
 
 " Oil, hallelujalem ! Ob, hallehijalem ! 
 Oh, honey, won't you come, 
 Oh, honey, won't you come. 
 
 To de bussom ob de Lord? 
 When de world's all on fire. 
 When de world's all on fire, 
 
 To de bussom ob de Lord ? ' ' 
 
 Carrie stood at one side with Charley. As the old 
 black man's song began, she started, listened, stepped 
 forward, and was in an ecstasy of quiet delight. 
 
 Belle remained by Snowe. 
 
 ''' She doesn't notice it yet, but I never made a mis- 
 take," said the old lawyer, rubbing his hands. " Sam," 
 he added, " come a little nearer, where you can see her 
 
146 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 — there ! Look at her. And now yon shall sing the 
 otlier cradle- song- — the song yon sang together when she 
 w^as a child." 
 
 ''All right, massa," said Sam; "here 1 is; bnt 1 
 don't like dose eyes. Can't help it, massa ; bnt 1 don't 
 like dose eyes !" 
 
 " Shnt up this instant. I tell yon it is she. It is — 
 it's got to be ! Now, my little lady," said Snowe to 
 Belle, " listen. We are going to have a little song 
 that yon will like, I know — that yon will like and 
 remember." 
 
 Then, tnrning to the spectators, who held their breath 
 in expectation : 
 
 " Take notice, every one of yon. Yon shall all see. 
 Now, Sam, the other little song." 
 
 Sam sang a line or two, and then pansed. 
 
 " You do — you do like it ? Yon do — you do remem- 
 ber it, don't you ?" cried Snowe, eagerly, to Belle. 
 
 "No, I don't. 1 don't remember it at all, and I 
 don't like it a bit," was the sad girl's reply. Her once 
 proud head was held low and abashed, and she could 
 take little interest even in things of the greatest concern 
 now. She had really loved Gully. But he had not only 
 been expelled from the Order of Yigilantes, but had been 
 banished forever. 
 
 Again Sam sang, and Carrie leaned forward and 
 looked in his face, still keeping a little distance off. 
 
 " That voice — that dusky face ! It is — it is the dream 
 of the desert !" cried she, clapping her hands. 
 
 Sam stopped, looked around, and began another stanza. 
 Carrie came nearer. Sam stopped. Carrie took up the 
 song, and sang a stanza. She joined in and began to 
 sing. They approached, singing together, and as the 
 song ended she sprang into his arms. 
 
THE HEIRESS. 147 
 
 '^ My cliile — my cliile ! Dis is de cliile — dis is de 
 cliile !" 
 
 Then he tore away her sleeve, and pointed to the scar 
 on her arm. 
 
 '' Dar — dar ! Dat is de Mormon's bullet-mark !" 
 
 '' Eureka ! Found — found !" shouted the old lawyer. 
 " I have found my heiress ! I told you so ! 1 never made 
 a mistake, and 1 never lost a case ! This is the heiress, 
 at last !" and he triumphantly took Carrie by the hand. 
 
 ^' And am I really somebody in particular?" asked 
 Carrie, in wonder. 
 
 '^ You are what you have always been — a little 
 
 princess in disguise," said Charley, tenderly. 
 
 * * -x- * * * 
 
 In the background, in the dusk of life, as it were, silent, 
 grateful, stood an old man, a subject of awe and rever- 
 ence. The woman he left leaning on the mantelpiece, 
 thousands of miles away, is now, in the dusk of life, lean- 
 ing lovingly on his arm. It is as a new marriage cove- 
 nant — the eternal peaks of the Sierras are the great high 
 priests in their robes of white at God's altar. 
 
 And strange, pitiful, piping old Colonel Billy is so alone 
 now. His '' pardner" is going away. He sees him al- 
 ready in some great fashionable hotel far away, a tight 
 collar on his great hairy neck, a breastplate of wbite starch 
 on his bosom, and tight boots on his feet of freedom — 
 splendor all about ; the little girl in high-heeled boots, 
 silks, and a thousand pretty things to make her person 
 lovely. He feels hurt, humbled; for '''49" had once 
 said, "We will go back together and buy the Astor 
 House, Billy, bar and all ; " and now he has forgotten it. 
 Colonel Billy coughs, spits cotton, looks at the woman 
 on old " '49' s " arm, and feels jealous. 
 
 The old hero of the tunnel hears the comrade of his 
 
148 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 
 
 early days, sees liim spitting cotton, and comprehends. 
 Laying liis left hand on the shoulder of the ^^ total 
 wreck," he says, "Billy, you're in with us." Colonel 
 Billy jerks off his hat, and then, as the occasion is op- 
 portune, proceeds to make a speech. And this is his 
 speech : 
 
 '^ Boys, boys, we old fellers of the days of Forty-nine 
 are about pegged out — not many more of us left — but 
 when we're all dead, write tliis : They were rough, 
 maybe ; but they did their level best. " 
 
 THE END. 
 
116 
 
 ARCHIBALD MALMAISON. 
 
 A New Novel. ByJuuAN Hawthorne. Price, paper, 13 cts.; cloth, extra 
 paper, 75 cents. 
 
 INDEPENDENT, N. V. " Mr. Julian Hawthorne car: choose no better com- 
 pliment upon his new romance, ' Archibald Malmaison,' than the assurance 
 that he has at last put forth a story which reads as if the manuscript, written 
 in his father's indecipherable handwriting and signed ' Nathaniel Haw- 
 thorne/ had lain shut into desk for twenty-five years, to be only just new 
 pulled out and printed. It is a masterful romance ; short, compresstd, terri- 
 bly dramatic in its important situations, based upon a psychologic idea as 
 weirl and susceptible of startling treatment as possible. It i? a book to be 
 read through in two hours, but to dwell in the memory forever. It so cleverly 
 
 • surpasses ' Garth ' or ' Bressant in its sympathy with the style of the elder 
 Hawthorne that it must remain unique among Mr. Julian Hawihorne's works 
 — until he exceeds it. The employment of the central theme and the literary 
 conduct of the plot is nearly beyond criticism. The frightful climax breaks 
 upon the perception of tlae reader with surprise that he did not foresee it ; 
 another tribute on his part to the unconventional ity which is one of the many 
 touches of eminent art in Mr. Hawthorne's tale." 
 
 R. H. STODDARD, IN NEW YORK MAIL AND EXPRESS. "The cli- 
 max is so terrible, as the London Times h^s pointed out, and so dramatic in 
 itf, intensity, that it is impossible to class it with any situation of modern fic- 
 tion. . . Mr. Hawthorne is clcaily and easily the first of living romancers." 
 
 THE CONTINENT, N. Y. "The most noteworthy story Mr. Julian Haw- 
 thorne has ever produced. . . No wilder romance has ever been imagined. 
 , . A brilliant and intensely powerful v/ork. . . It is certain that such 
 power sets the author at the head of modern romancers.'' 
 
 THE LONDON TIMES, " After perusal of this weird, fantastic tale (Archi- 
 bald Malmaison), it must be admitted that upon the shoulders of Julian 
 Hawthorne has descended in no small degree the mantle of his more illustri- 
 ous lather. The climax is so terrible, and so dramatic in its intensity, that it 
 is impossible to class it with any situation of nsodcrn fiction. There is much 
 psychological ingenuity shown in some of the more subt.c touches that lend 
 an air of reality to this wild romance." 
 
 THE LONDON GLOBE. " 'Archibald Malmaison,' is one of the most daring 
 attempts to set the wildest fancy masquerading in the cloak ot science, which 
 has ever, perhaps, been made. Mr. Hawthorne has managed to combine the 
 almost perfect construction of a typical French novelist, with a more than 
 typically German power of conception. Genius is here of a kind more artistic- 
 ally self-governed than Hoffman's, and less obviously self-conscious than 
 Poe's. A strange sort of jesting humor gives piquancy to its grimne^s." 
 
 THE ACADEMY. "Mr. Hawthorne has a more powerful imagination than 
 any contemporary writer of fictien. He has the very uncommon gift of taking 
 hold of the reader's attention at once, and the Still more uncommon gift of 
 maintaining his grasp when it is fixed." 
 
 TJIE PEARL-SHELL NECKLACE.— PRINCE HA- 
 
 RONPS V/lPE. 
 
 Two Novels. By Julian Hawthorne, one volume, i2mo, paper, 15 cents; 
 
 cloth, extra paper, 75 cents. [In press.] 
 
 CONTEMPORARY REVIEW. "The 'Pearl-Shell Necklac:' is a stor>- of 
 
 permanent value, and stands quite alone for subtle blending of individual and 
 
 general human interest, poetic and psychologic suggestion, and rare humor." 
 
 SPECTATOR. *' ' The Pearl-Shell Necklace' wherever found, would stamp 
 Its author as a man of genius. Even the elder Hawthorne never produced 
 more weird effects within anything like the same compass. And yet there is 
 absolutely no imitation." 
 
 FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., New York. 
 
117 
 
 HIMSELF AGAIN. 
 
 A New Novel. By J. C. Goldsmith, i2mo, paper, 25 cts.; cloth, extra 
 paper, $1.00. 
 
 COMMENTS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 THE BOSTON' GLOBE. " Its peculiar qualities are its delineation of eccen- 
 Iric character which is notabiv free and bold, and its familiarity with many 
 kinds of present American life and manners, and its original, realistic treat- 
 ment. . . Beneath the sprightly dash with which the story is outlined and 
 liiled, there is conscious strong power. It is finely written, and of decided 
 merit." 
 
 THE EVENING POST, HARTFORD. " Unlike most novels, the first chap- 
 ters of this remarkable story are the weakest. But let the reader persevere and 
 he will find opened to him a wonderful world of novel and interesting charac- 
 ters, a valuable and unique philosophy, and an almost unsurpassed background 
 of American city and country scenery, both land and water." 
 
 BOSTON ADVERTISER. "The writer displays more than average insight 
 into the workings of human nature, and the naturalness of his character draw- 
 ing is no doubt the secret of the special attiaction that lies in the book." 
 
 CLEVELAND LEADER. " This is a purely American novel. . . and one 
 ol the best we have seen. It is so vivid in its description of localities and 
 personage^, that the reader hardly doubts that all i> real. And in accom- 
 plishing this ti'e author achieves a kind of charm that is as delightful as it is 
 hard to define." 
 
 RUTHERFORD. 
 
 A New Novel. By Edgar Favvcett. Author cf "An Ayttdiiious Woman," 
 
 "A Gentleman of Leisure," "A Hopeless Case," " Tinkling Cymbals" 
 
 etc, i2mo, paper, 25 cts; cloth, extra paper, gi. 00, 
 
 MR. FAWCETT has of late been steadily and rapidly advancing toward the 
 foremost place among American novelists. He deals with phises of society 
 that require the utmost skill ; but his quick insight into character, his ready 
 sympathies, and his conscientious literary art, have proved more than equal to 
 the tasks he has undertaken. It is certain that many of the best critics are 
 watching his course with high anticipations. In ' Rutherford, his latest 
 work, neither they nor the public will be disappointed. It is a novel of New 
 York society, and rarely has character been portrayed with more de'icate but 
 effective touches than in the case of some of these representatives of Knicker- 
 bocker caste. The story is by no means confined to them however, but is en- 
 riched to a very great degree by characters taken from lower social planes. 
 Nothing the author has ever done, perhaps, surpasses his characterization of 
 ' Pansy ' one of the two sisters who have fallen from affluence to poverty. 
 Through them he arouses the deepest sympathies, and shows a dramatic 
 power that is full of promise. It is needless, of course, to commend the liter- 
 ary finish of Mr. Fawcett's style. It is fust approaching perfection. 
 
 FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., New York. 
 
118 
 
 THE FORTUNES OF RACHEL. 
 
 A New Novel. By Edward Everett Hale. i2mo, paper, 25c.; cloth, Ix. 
 
 CHRISTIAN UNION N. Y ' Probably no American has a more devoted 
 constituency of readers than Mr Edward Everett Hale, and to all these his 
 latest stoiy, ' The Fortunes of Rachel, will bring genuine pleasure. Mr. Hale 
 is emphatically a natural writer; he loves to interpret common things and to 
 deal with average persons. He does this with such insight, with such noble 
 conception of life and of his work, that he discovers that profound interest 
 which belongs to the humblest as truly as to the most brilliant forms ot life. 
 . . This story is a thoroughly American novel, full of incident, rich in 
 
 strong traits of character, and full of stimulating thought; it is wholesome and 
 elevating." 
 
 BOSTON JOURNAL. " The virtue of the book is the healthful, encouraging, 
 kindly spirit which pervades it, and which will help one to battle with adverse 
 circumstances, as, indeed, all Mr. Hale's stories have helped." 
 
 NEIV YORK JOURNAL OF COMMERCE. "A purely American story, 
 original all through, and Rachel is one of the pleasantest and most satisfactory 
 ofherome?. She is a girl of the soil, unspoiled by foreign travels and con- 
 ventionalities. After surfeiting on romances whose scenes are laid abroad, it 
 is delightful to come across a healthy home product like tbis." 
 
 BOSTON GLOBE, " Every one knows that Mr. Hale is the prince of story- 
 tellers." 
 
 MUMU, AND THE DIAR Y OF A SUPERFL UOUS MAN. 
 
 Two powerful novels descriptive of serf and upper-class life in Russia. 
 By Ivan Turgenieff. i2mo, paper, 15c.; cloth, extra paper, 75c. 
 
 N. Y. TRIBUNE. *' His characters are vital; they suffer with a pathos that 
 irresistibly touches the reader to sympathy. Those who would write in the 
 same vein get merely his admirable manner, full of reserve, of self-restraint, 
 of joyless patience; but while under this surface with Turgenieff he throbbing 
 arteries and quivering flesh, his imitators offer us nothing more than lay figures 
 in whose fortunes it is impossible to take any lively interest. They represent 
 before us only poor phases of modern society, while Turgenieff has explained 
 io us a nation apd shown the playof emotions that are as old .'is the world and 
 :as new as the hour in which they are born." 
 
 IJITERARY WORLD, Boston. " These two stories . . are unquestion- 
 ably to be ranked among their author's masterpieces. . . *Mumu' will 
 •bear a great amount of study ; it marks out a whole method in fiction." 
 
 THE MANHATTAN. "One of the most powerful and touching pictures of 
 sla*'.c-.Ule in all literature." 
 
 LIPPINVOTT S MAGAZINE, Phila. "There are some haT dozen of Tnr- 
 geniaff'sfshort stories absolutely perfect each in its way, but none, perhaps, 
 quiteao exquisitely as Mumu ' shows the great artist's power to transfigure to 
 our ey^fthe tenderness, passion, agonies, which lie beyond speech and almost 
 beyoad^igu, in the silent heart of a strong, simple man." 
 
 CRITIC ^.ND 'GOOD LITERATURE, N. Y. " How little_ material genius 
 requires for making a ' good thing.* Turgenieff's ' Murnu ' is only the sketch 
 of a deaf mute and a dog, but how beautifully told I Thsi-e are touches of 
 infinite g.entlenss3 as well as of skill." 
 
 FUNK 'S WA-GNALLS. Publishers, 10 & la Dey St.. New York. 
 
119 
 
 PUBLICATIONS OF FUNK <V WAGNALLS, NEW YORK. 
 
 TALKS TO FARMERS. 
 
 BY CHARLES H. SPURGEON. 
 
 300 pp., ISmo, Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 This is the last, and one of the best, of the wonderful productions 
 of the fertile pen and prolific brain of Mr. Spurgeon. It consists of ;i 
 series of Talks to Farmers. Each Talk is a short sermon from a 
 text on some subject concerning agricnlture. Mr. Spnrgeon is as 
 much at home in, and as familiar with, the scones of nature as ho is 
 with the stores and business of mighty London. 
 
 WHAT IS THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 Canailiftn Baptist Bays: "Our 
 readers need no information abont Mr. 
 Spurgeon. His name is a household 
 •word. They read his scrmong con- 
 stantly. They have only to be told that 
 something new of his has appeared, and 
 they are eager to procure and read. In 
 nothing, perbaps, does Mr. Spurgeon's 
 greatness manifest itself mere con- 
 c-picuouGly than in hi3 wonderful 
 power of adapting his discourses to the 
 needs of those to Trh-'m he speaks. 
 'John Ploughman's Talks' and 'John 
 Ploughman's Pictures ' are admirable 
 illustrations of this power. 6o is the 
 t>onk before us. It will bo especially 
 interesting to farmers, but all wiU en- 
 joy the practical common scneo, the 
 abundance of illustrative anecdote, the 
 depth of spiritual insight, tJjc richness 
 of imagery, that prevail in the volume. 
 The subjects of tho different; chapters 
 are: 'The Sluggard's Farm,' -The 
 Broken JTeace,' •i'l'ost and Thaw,' 
 
 •The Corn of Wheat Dying to Bring 
 Forth Fruit,' 'The Ploughman.' 
 ♦Ploughing the Rock,' *Tbe Parable 
 of the SoAver,' ' The Principal Wheat,' 
 ' Spring in tho Heart,' ' Farm Labor- 
 ers,' 'What the Farm Laborers Can 
 Do and T^Tiat They Cannot Do,' 'The 
 Sbecp beforo the Shearers,' 'In tho 
 Hav Field,' ' Spiritual Gleaning,' 
 'Meal Time in the Cornfield,' ' Th« 
 Leading Wagon,' 'Threshing,' 'The 
 Wheat in the Barn.' Every farmer 
 should read this book." 
 
 Th.© Clsristiaii J»?oni<or, St. 
 Louis, Mo., Fays : "Most interesting and 
 unique. Tho argumente in favor of 
 C: ris'ianity arc able and convincing, 
 andtLere is not adry.uninteresting line 
 in the book; the distinguiBhed author 
 presents the principles of relipious lif^ 
 in a novel but instructive manner, and 
 the garniture of truth and earnestness 
 in hi3 competent hands makes the book 
 eminently readable, ' 
 
 Godet's Co^im©ntary on Ko2:aass.s- 
 
 This American edition is edited by Talbot W. Chambeks, D.D. 544 
 large octavo pages. Cloth, $2.50. 
 
 Hotvard Crosby, U.IIJ., eayrs : 
 
 •I consider Godet a man of soundest 
 laaming and purest orthodoxy." 
 
 Thomas Arisiltage, D.D., pays: 
 "Especially must I commend the fair, 
 painstaking,thorougb and devout work 
 of Dr. Godet. AH his works are wel- 
 come to every true thinker." 
 
 ArtlsTjr Broolig, D.D.. soys: 
 
 " Any on© acquainted with Godet's 
 other works will congratulate hims'ilf 
 that tho saine authors clear logic and 
 deep learning, as brought to bear upon 
 the dif&culties of the Epistle to the IJo- 
 nians, are to be made accessible through 
 this publication." 
 
 e^ The 
 
 above w rks wi.l be sent by tHj.il, postage paid, on receipt 0/ th* pt\ 
 
^PUBLICATIONS OF FUNIC &* WAGNALLS, NEW YORK. 
 
 120 
 
 GEMS OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 From the Writings of Dr. Guthrie, arranged under 
 the subjects which they illustrate. 
 \ By aa Asnerican Clergfjinasi* 
 
 Price, in Cloth, $1.50, 
 
 This book abounds in picturesque similes. Dr. Guthrie has rarely, 
 if ever, been equaled either in the number, beauty or force of the 
 illustrations with which his sermons and writings abound. They 
 have been collected by an American clergyman, a great admirer of 
 the author, and the book forms a perfect storehouse of anecdotes, 
 comparisons, examples and illustrations. It contains the choicest of 
 his illustrations, arranged under the subjects which they illustrate. 
 
 Ihe London Tirms says: ** Dr. Guthrie is the most elegant orator in 
 Europe." 
 
 Dr. CandlUh s&ys: "Dr. Guthrie's genius has long since placed 
 him at the head of all the gifted and popular preachers of our day." 
 
 Dr. James W. Alexander says : **I listened to him for fifty minutes, 
 but they passed like nothing." 
 
 The Western. Chrlirtian Ad- 
 xrocate Bays : "Dr. Guthrie was pe- 
 culiarly iiaippy in the ueo of brilliant 
 aud forcible illuetratlone ta hifl ser- 
 mone and -writings. An American li*s 
 Belected many of these gems of thcnght 
 and arranged them under the subjccta 
 -which they illustrate. Headers aud 
 preskchers -will enjoy them, and will find 
 many beautiful sentiments and seed- 
 thoughts for present and future use." 
 
 The Boston Sartday Globe 
 
 Eaya : "Dr. Guthrie's illnstrationa are 
 rich and well chosen and givQ great 
 force to hia ideas. Love, faith, hope, 
 charity are the pillars of hi* belief." 
 
 The LiHtlieraTi Observer, Phila- 
 delphia, says: "Thepo-werof illustra- 
 tion should bo cultivated by preachers 
 of the Gospel, and this volume ot speci- 
 mens, if used aright, -will furnish valu- 
 able suggestions. A good illustration 
 in a sermon awakens the imagination, 
 helps the memory and gives the barb 
 to truth that it may fasten la the 
 heart." 
 
 The Christian In^ellig^ne^r 
 
 says : " it is a large repository full of 
 stirring thoughts set in those splendid 
 forms of ' spiritualized imagination,' of 
 which Dr. Guthrie was the peerlea* 
 master." 
 
 Th© ClirisK ian Observer, Louia- 
 
 rUle, eays: " No words of ours could 
 add to its value." 
 
 The Bostr>n Post says: "A rare 
 mine of literary wealth." 
 
 The Obterver, New York, says: "It 
 ■w^as not given to every generation to 
 haveaG-athrie." 
 
 Th© Christian Advo<'a*e, New 
 
 York, says: "This book -wall be read 
 with interest by the religious world." 
 
 The Zion's Heral.-J, Boston, says: 
 "Preachers will appreciate this vol- 
 ume." 
 
 The Christian Gnardian. To- 
 ronto, says: "An eKceedingly interesting 
 and valuable work." 
 
 TAt above works vuill be sent by mail, posiage paid^ on receipt of the price. 
 
121 
 
 George Eliot's Essays. 
 
 THE ESSAYS OF GEORGE ELIOT, Collected and Arranged, 
 with an Introduction on her " Analysis of Motives." By Nathan 
 Sheppard, author of "Shut up in Paris," '♦ Readings from George 
 Eliot," etc. Paper, 25 cents; fine cloth, ^i.oo. 
 
 ( This is the first appearance of these Essays in book form in England 
 or America.) 
 
 furnish the key to all her subsequent 
 
 literary achievements." 
 
 Evening Transcript, Boston . 
 
 " No one who reads these essays will re- 
 gret their publication, for they are of 
 striking and varied ability, and add much 
 to the completeness of our conception of 
 Marian Evans' character. Critical and 
 artistic pov/er seldom go hand-m-hand. 
 The most brilliant piece of purely literary 
 work is the one on Keine and German 
 •wit. It is one which reaches the highest 
 level of intellectual criticism, and stands 
 unsurpassed by anything of Arnold or 
 Lowell." 
 Cfiiurcli Union, New York: 
 
 •' Nathan Sheppard, the collector of the 
 ten essays in thisfjim, has written a high- 
 ly laudatory but critical introduction to 
 the book, on her 'Analysis of Motives,' 
 and, after reading it, it seems to us that 
 every one who would read her worVs 
 profitably and truly should first have read 
 
 The Critic, New York: 
 
 "Messrs. Funk & Wagnalls have done 
 a. real service to George Eliot's innumer- 
 able admirers by reprinting in their popu- 
 lar Standard Library the great novel- 
 ist's occasional contributions to the period- 
 ical press." 
 Ne-vr York gran : 
 
 "In the case of George Eliot especially, 
 whose reviews were anonymous, and who 
 could never have supposed that such 
 fugitive ventures would ev«r be widely 
 associated with the name of a diffident 
 and obbcure young woman, we gain access 
 in her early essays, as in no other of her 
 published writings, o the sanctuary c f her . 
 deepest ccnviclijiis, and to the intellectu:il 
 workshop in which literary methods and 
 processes were tested, discarded, or .ap- 
 proved, and literary tools fashioned and 
 manipulated long before the author had 
 discerned the large purposes to which they 
 were to be applied. * * * Looking back 
 over the whole ground covered by these 
 admirable papers, v,e are at no loss to un- 
 derstand why Gecrge Eliot should have 
 made it a rule to read no criticisms on her 
 own stories. She had nothing to learn 
 from critics. She was justified in assum- 
 ing that not one of those who took upon 
 themselves to appraise her achievements 
 had given half of the time, or a tithe of 
 the intellect, to the determination cf the 
 right aims and processes of the English 
 novel, which, as these reviews attest, she 
 had herself ex[)ended on that object before 
 venturing upon that form of composition 
 which Fielding termed the modern epic." 
 Kxaminor, New York : 
 
 "These essays ought to be read by any 
 one who would understand this part of 
 George Eliot's career; and, indeed, they 
 
 Z ion's Herald, Boston : 
 
 " As remarkable illustrations of her 
 masculine metaphysical ability as is evi- 
 denced in her strongest fictions." 
 Spisccpal Metliodist, Baltimore : 
 
 "Everybody of culture wants to read 
 all George Eliot wrote." 
 Hartford Evening Post: 
 
 •' They are admirable pieces of liter-. 
 ary workmanship, but they are much more 
 than that. * * * These essays are tri- 
 umphs of critical analysis combined with 
 epigrammatic pungencj', subtle ironyp 
 and a wit that never seems strained. " 
 CSiristian Advocate, New York : 
 
 " Ihey show the versatility of the great 
 novelist. One on Evangelical Teaching is 
 especially interesting." 
 
122 
 ALPHONSE DAUDErS FAMOUS BOOK, 
 
 L'EVANGELISTE. 
 
 B^ ALPHONSE I3A.UI3ET- 
 Pounded on the Doings of the Salvation Army. 
 
 " L'fivANGELTSTE " 13 far out of the beaten track of fiction, and its originality 
 is eavyplemented by intense power and interest ; in fact, it woiild be ninicult to Und a 
 romance in which the interest is more absorbing. Nor is this interest the result, 
 as is deplorably the case in so much French fiction, of highly spiced sentimental- 
 ity or daring vulgarity. The book is clean, wholesome, refined, and is, moreover, 
 founded on fact It treats mainly of the acts and methods of that world-famous 
 organization, the Salvation Army, and the heroine, Eline Ebsen, )S a Dane living 
 with her mother in the Scandinavian colony in Paris. She is on the point of being 
 married, and a happy life seems in store for her, but suddenly a disturbing influence 
 appears in the shape of Madam Autheman, a wealthy banker's wife, who i!< given 
 to making religious converts. This woman hires Elinc to translate some prayer- 
 books, and during the execution of the work the girl becomes filled Avith her 
 patron's enthusiasm. She breaks with her suitor and deserts her mother to serve 
 as a preacher in the Salvation Army. This is the introduction to one ot the most 
 thrilling novels of the day, and from thence onward the plot absolutely enthralls 
 the reader, each succeeding link riveting the chain the tighter. The incidents are 
 strong in the highest degree, very dramatic, and pervaded by a lurid light of mysti- 
 cism which augments the effect a thousand-fold. The gradual development in the 
 young heroine of the fatal passion for proselytizing people is depicted as Alphonso 
 Daudet alone of all the French novelists can depict an idea, and the struggles ot 
 the poor mother to recover her deluded daughter from the grasp of the rich Authe- 
 mans, her vain apneals to the feeling of pity and the unsympathetic law, touch the 
 heart of the reader to an extent the pen cannot depict, all the more so when one 
 learns how the novel came to be written. Daudet had often observed the sad face 
 of the lady who gave lessons in German to his eldest son. Surprising lier one day, 
 with tears in her eyes, he induced her to narrat-e the causes of her woe. The story 
 of the woman forms the basis of this novel, in which she figures as Mme. Ebsen. 
 
 WHAT CRITICS THINK OF DAUDET. 
 
 HENEY JAMES, Jr., says, in the Century Magazine: "We have no one, 
 either in England or America, to oppose to Alphonse Daudet. Tlie appearance ot 
 a new novel by this admirable genius is to my mind the most delightful literary 
 event that can occur just now : in other words, Alphonse Daudet is at the head 
 of his profession." 
 
 JULES CLARETIE, the eminent French writer, says : *' To-day Alphonse 
 Daudet has arrived at the full measure of his renown. In fiction he is proclaimed 
 the master. ... Is the most delicate, the most sympathetic, the most charming of 
 all our contemporary writers of romance. . . . The poet of romance. 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER says, in a letter, April 3, '84 : " I had rather be Alphonse 
 Daudet than any other living man now in literature, except two ; one of these is 
 Victor Hugo, and the other is— Joaquin Miller." 
 
 Paper Cover, 50 cents. Clotla, 81-00. 
 
 l^ This is the ONLY Complete Edition of the Story published in 
 America. About one half of the Story is published in one of the cheap 
 Libraries of the day— a mere fragment. 
 
123 FUBLICATTONS OF FUNK S WAGNALLS, NEW YORK. 
 
 ** TSte most important and practical -nrork of tlie age on t3i9 
 P3alm8."-^CHAFF. 
 
 SIX V^I^USSKS NO-^ I^EAOY. 
 
 -SPURCiEOi^'S CRE^T LIFE W®RiC- 
 
 THE TREASURY OF DAVID! 
 
 To be published in seven octavo volumes of about 470 pages each, 
 uniformly bound, and making a library of 3,300 pages, 
 in handy form for reading and reference. 
 It is published simultaneously with, and contains the exact matter o^ 
 the English Edition, which has sold at $4.00 per volume 
 in this country — $28.00 for the work when com- 
 pleted. Our edition is in every way pref- 
 erable, and is furnished at 
 
 ONE-HAiF THE PBICE OF 
 
 THE ENGLISH 
 
 EDITION. 
 
 Price, Per Vol. $2.00. 
 
 ^^ Messrs, Funk dr' Wagnalls have entered into an arrangement with 
 ue to reprint THE TREASUR V OF DA VID in the United States. J 
 have every confidence in them that they will issue it correctly and worthily. 
 It has been the great literary work of my life^ and I trust it will be as 
 kindly received in America as in England. I wish for Messrs. Funk sue* 
 eess in a venture which must involve a great risk and much outlay. 
 
 *'Dec. 8, i8Si. C. H. SPURGE ON:' 
 
 Volumes I., n., IIL, lY., Y. and VI. are now ready; volume 
 VII., which completes the great work, is now under the hand of th» 
 author. Subscribers can consult their convenience by ordering all 
 the volumes issued, or one volume at a time, at stated intervals, until 
 the set is completed by the delivery of Volume VII. 
 
 From the krge number of hearty commendations of this import* 
 snt work, we give the following to indicate the value set upon the 
 eame by 
 
 EMINENT THEOLOGIANS AND SCHOLARS. 
 
 PSiilipSc!iair,T^.I5., the Eminent i tical vork of the age on the Psalter is 
 Commentator and the President of the ' The Treasury of David/ by Charles H 
 American Bible Revision Committee, Spurgeon, It is full of the force and 
 eays: "The most important and prac- I genius of this c«lebrated preacher, &nd 
 
 (over.) 
 
 * tS'Tht above worJa will be sent by mail, postage paid, on receipt of theprit6» 
 
PUBLWATWNS HF i'UNR di ff-^A^ATALLS, NEIV YORK. 
 
 124 
 
 rfch la selections from the entire range 
 ©f literature. " 
 
 Wi'liam M. Taylor, I>.t>.9 
 
 New York eaya: " In the exposition of 
 the heart 'Ths TREASCBy of David' is 
 iui genTis, rich in experience and pre- 
 eminently devotional. The exposition 
 is iiiwa:> a fresh. To the preacher it is 
 espsciaUy suggestive." 
 
 ^oitn Hal?, D.1>., New ifovfc, 
 says: -'There are two questions that 
 must interest every expositot- of tha 
 Eiviaa Word. What does a particular 
 ■Dassage mean, and to what use is it to 
 be applied in public teaching? In the 
 department of the latter Mr. Spur- 
 geon's great work on the Psalms is 
 Without an equal. Eminently practical 
 in his own teaching, he has collected in 
 these volumes the best thoughts of the 
 bast minds on the Psalter, and espe- 
 cially of that great body^ooaeiy grouped 
 together as the Puritan divines. I am 
 heartily glad that by arrangements, 
 Batisfactory to all concerned, the Messrs. 
 "Funk & Wa(?nalls are to bring tliia great 
 tyork within the roach of ministers 
 everywhere, as the English edition is 
 necessarily expensive. I wish the 
 highest success to the enterprise," 
 
 W^illiann Ormiaton, D.T>., New 
 York, says: " I consider * The Tbkasubv 
 OF David' a work of surpassing excel- 
 lence.of inestimable value to every stu- 
 dent of the J'salter. It will prove a 
 standard work on the Psalms for all 
 time. The instructive introductions, 
 the racy original expositions, the 
 numerous quaint illustrations gath- 
 ered from wide and varied fields, and 
 the suggestive Bormonic hints, render 
 the volumes invaluable to all preachers, 
 and indispensable to every minister's 
 library. All who delight in reading the 
 Psaltus — and what Christian does not? 
 — will prize this w«rk. It is a rich 
 cyclopaedia of the Literature of tiiese 
 ancient odes." 
 
 TUeo. li. Ctiyler, O.D., Brook- 
 lyn, eays: " I have used Mr, Spurgeon's 
 ♦The Tbeabuey of Davib' for th?-ee 
 jears, and found it worthy of its name. 
 Whoso goeth in there will find ' rich 
 spoils.' At both my visits to Mr. S. he 
 spoke with much enthusiasm of this 
 undertaking as one of his favorite 
 methods of enriching himself and 
 others." 
 
 Jes^oB. Tlioina.s, D.D., Brook- 
 lyn, says: " I have the highest concep- 
 
 tion ot the sterling worth of all Mr. 
 Spurgeon's publications, and I incline 
 to regard his Tbeasuby of David' as 
 having received more of his loving 
 labor than any other. I regard its 
 publication at a lower price as a great 
 service to American Bible Students," 
 
 New York Observer sayo: " A 
 rich compendium of suggestive com- 
 ment upon the richest devotional 
 poetry ever given to mankind. ' 
 
 Tlie Congregationalist, Eos- 
 ton, says: " As a devout and spiritually 
 suggestive work, it is meeting with 
 the warmest approval and receiving 
 the hearty commendation of the most 
 distinguished divines." 
 
 United Presbyterian, Pitts- 
 burg, Pa., says: " It is unapproached 
 as a commentary on the Psalms. It is 
 of equal value to ministers and lay- 
 men — a quality that works of the kind 
 rarely possess." 
 
 Nortb American, Philadelphia, 
 Pa.: says: '•Will find a place in the 
 library of every minister who knows 
 how to appreciate a good thing." 
 
 Ne"W Yorls Indepeitdfnt pays: 
 " He has ransacked evangelical litera- 
 ture,and comes forth, like Jessica from 
 her father's house, 'gilded with 
 ducats' and rich plunder in the shape 
 of good and helptul quotations,' 
 
 Ne-w York Tribune says: *'For 
 the great majority of readers who seek 
 in the Psalms those practical lessons 
 in which they are so rich, and those 
 wonderful interpretations of heart-life 
 and expression of emotion in which 
 they anticipate the New Testament, we 
 know of no book like this, nor as good. 
 It is literally a • Treasury.* " 
 
 S. S. Times says: " Mr. Spurgeon's 
 style is simple, direct and perspicuous, 
 olten reminding one of the matchlesa 
 prose of Bunyan." 
 
 West/ rn Cliristian Advo^^ate, 
 Cincinnati, O., says: "The price is ex» 
 tremely moderate for so large and im- • 
 portant a work. * * * -y^g tave ex- 
 amined this volume with care, and we 
 are greatly pleased with the ijlan of 
 execution." 
 
 CJiristian Herald Bays: "Con- 
 tains more felicitous illustrationa, 
 more valuable eermonic hints, thau can 
 be found in all other Avorks on ths 
 same book put together." 
 
 ttf Tht above works will be sent by mail, postage J>aid, on receipt of the prict^ 
 
GEORGE W. CURTIS: ^^^ 
 
 "J. inost sermceable companion^ 
 
 HON. JUDGE EDMUNDS, U. S. SENATOR: 
 
 ^''The most complete and best toork of the k'ind.''^ 
 
 GEN. STEWART L. V/OODFORD: 
 
 ^''The most complete and accurate hook of the kind.'' '' 
 
 MAJ.-GEN. GEO. B. MeCLELLAN: 
 
 " JL v)ork that shoiild he in every library.'''' 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON CHILDS: 
 ^''Any one tnho dips into it nnll at once make a place for 
 
 it among his well-chosen books." 
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER: 
 
 " Good all the way through.'''' 
 
 HON. ABRAM S. HEWITT: 
 
 '■''The completeness of its indices is simply astonishing.'' ' 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS (Just before his Death): ^ 
 ^^It is of rare value to the scholar.'''' ' 
 
 BOSTON POST: 
 
 *' The only standard book of quotations. For convenience and usfftdnexs the work 
 cannot, to our mind, be surpassed, and it 7nust long remai n the standard among jfs kind, 
 reatlMSig side by side with, and being equally indispensable in e?iery well-orde'-cd lib rary, 
 «a Wo-rcester's or Wehs ter's Dictionary, Roget's Thesaurus, and Crabb's Synonyms." 
 
 ♦<THE flBO¥E COMMENDATIONS REFER TO »- 
 
 1'he jloyt-Y/ard Eiicydop^dia of g)uotations, 
 
 PROSE AND POETRY. 
 
 a0,OO0 QUOTATIONS, 50,000 LINES OF CONCORDANCE. 
 
 This full concordance of over 50,000 lines, is to quotations what Young's and 
 Cruden's Concordances are to the Bible. A quotation, if but a word is remembered, 
 can easily be found by means of this great work. 
 
 Prices:— Royal, 8vo., ever goo pp.. Heavy Paper, Cloth Binding, $5,00 ; 
 Sheep, $5.50; Half Morocco, $8.00; Full Morocco, $10.00. 
 
 PuWisliers : FUNK & WAGNALLS, 10 & 12 Dey Street, Rew York. 
 
3pt. 8, 1884. 
 
 Price, 1 5 Cents, 
 
 No. 123. 
 
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 Copyright, 1884, by Funk & Wagkalm. 
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 SAI?I. By T. Q. Bowles. 25c. 
 
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 " The first appearance in book form. 
 
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 By L. C. HoLLowAT 15c. 
 
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 "A graphic narrative and a strong pic- 
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 41. Pulpit Table-Talk. Dean Ram- 
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