"All's not Gold that Glitters;" or, The Young Californian

by Alice B. Haven

CHAPTER X.
A GLIMPSE AT THE MINES.

And now the romance of “going to California” began to subside into the dull reality of a pick and shovel. The claim would never have been purchased but for Sam. It did not suit either Mr. Gilman’s or Colcord’s inclinations to settle down to steady, hard work, after all the stories of wonderful “luck” they had heard in the States and on their way to the mines. Such things had happened more frequently before the crowd of miners had scoured the whole country. Gold that had laid undisturbed for ages, silently collecting in the crevices of the rock, was discovered by some fortunate stroke, and gathered almost pure. But the first boundless harvest was nearly over, and the gold crop, like any other, was not to be had without labor.

Every straggling party that came to their camp was questioned by Mr. Gilman, who took all they said for truth, and was ready to start off “prospecting,” or searching among the neighboring ravines, and leave the bar to those who claimed it. Colcord hesitated between the father and son. Sam talked with the miners by whom he worked steadily all day, many of whom had explored the whole gold region. They told him that the gold of the Yuba was the purest, and in the end was sure to make a safe return. Many of the camps were unhealthy from chills, and more wasting diseases, and those who roved from place to place were sure to lose as much time and strength on the road, or in days and days of vain search, as they made by their most fortunate discoveries. These rough, hard men, all seemed to like the cheerful, industrious boy, and showed him many a kindness, that was the more pleasant because unexpected. They taught him the easiest way to detect and separate the fine particles of gold in the pans of earth dug up from the river’s bed, and here, as well as at home, he saw that much was gained by doing things the right way, instead of wasting time in experiments.

At first he was employed to carry earth from where the men were throwing it up in piles with shovels and spades, to the cradle, or gold washer, in which it was cleansed. This was a much more simple affair than the complicated machine Mr. Gilman had bought under that name. It was something the shape of the old-fashioned cherry wood cradle in which he had been rocked to sleep, but was built of rough boards, and in length would have accommodated a man better than a baby. One end was left open; in the other was fixed a shallow iron pan, pierced with holes. In this the dirt was thrown, the water poured over it, and as the cradle was rocked the gold fell through, and being heavier than the dirt remained in the bottom, caught between the bars of wood placed across it. As it needed several persons to manage a cradle properly, others working on their own account washed out the gold in an ordinary tin pan, such as they had brought with them.

Some of the more successful miners hired the Indians, who were attracted to their camp, to work for them at these cradles. Sam was very much amused at their odd ways, and careless, simple habits. They had no idea of laying up, or saving any thing for themselves. So that they had enough to eat, and could purchase any trifle they took a fancy to among the possessions of the miners, it was all they seemed to care for. Sam’s first ounce was made by exchanging for it a fanciful worsted cap he had picked up at sea, from the stores of his friend Jackson, the red tassel having fascinated his new work-fellow. The natives seemed much more like children than grown up men, just as he had read of them in books of travel. He did not think they came up to his idea of the North American Indians, found by the first settlers on the Atlantic coast. To Ben and himself, King Philip and his followers had always seemed finely formed, stern and resolute braves,—it would be hard to transform the thoughtless, degraded Californian natives into warriors, even in imagination.

Mrs. Gilman might well think anxiously of her absent son, for hard work was not by any means the worst he had to bear. He could get along well enough in the daytime, though his back ached with stooping in the hot sun, or his limbs were chilled by standing almost up to the waist in water. It was pleasant in the early morning to watch the sunshine drive away the dense masses of shadow from this mountain gorge, striking the tents and the bed of the stream with glancing rays,—to listen to the hum of voices, and the ringing stroke of those at work among the rocks. When the heat became intense, and his work more severe, there was a never-ceasing pleasure in dreams of home, and wondering about the changes that had been, or would be. He could see the ever dear mother’s face, and Abby’s teasing ways, and Hannah, more quiet, but not so dear to him as “little Chunk”—his favorite nickname for his chubby playmate. And then he was always planning their return; how he would leave father to come on in the stage, and he would hurry on from the last stopping place. He would be so grown, and brown, and altered, that Mooney would not know him as he went by the tavern, nor even Ben standing at the post-office door. But he could not wait to talk to them with the little brown house in sight. There would be his mother sewing by the window,—but she would look up as if she had never seen him before, and Abby would answer his knock, while he asked the way to Squire Merrill’s. His mother would start when she heard his voice, and come out into the entry, and then he could not keep in any longer, but say, “don’t you know me, mother?”—in a voice all choked, and—here the dream was broken by the signal for quitting work, and weary enough he would go back to their camping ground to find his father fretful and discontented, or perhaps bearing Colcord’s abuse, which Sam dared not resent, though it made his very blood boil.

His day’s work was not yet over; not until he had collected brush and dry sticks in the ravine to cook the evening meal; mixed the cakes of flour and water—even this was costly fare—stewed the jerked beef, or boiled the coffee, if they were so fortunate as to have any. His own share was eaten while trying to keep peace between the two men, who quarrelled incessantly over their plans and gains, especially when there was any liquor to be obtained at the shanty, which furnished them with food at enormous prices.

They had agreed to work their claim on equal shares, Sam proving that he could earn as much as either of them in the course of the day, by his steady industry and greater skill. He did not think of claiming any part for himself. He was working for his father, and his father was working for “mother and the girls,”—it was all the same thing. But Colcord was constantly quarrelling about this. He said the partnership was between himself and Mr. Gilman, and they ought to share equally. Every fresh outbreak, Sam was in hopes they would separate. He did not care how hard they worked, so they could keep peace. He was frightened at the wicked feeling of hate, that would come into his mind, towards this man, who had been the cause of so much disgrace and trouble to his father; and he was haunted by the fear that it would end in bloodshed between them. Sleeping or awake this fear followed him. He often dreamed that he saw Colcord standing over his father in sleep, with a face made horrible by passion, and lifting an iron bar, or pick, to strike him dead. Rumors of murder and robbery came from every part of the country: the curse of avarice seemed to rest upon it.