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

by Alice B. Haven

He had been muttering to himself all the while, and his wild gestures drew the notice of those working around him. Sam was bending over his father almost as despairingly as he had done on the plains, trying to rouse him, when he heard some one say—

“I thought the old man needed looking after the last two or three days. Bear a hand, and we’ll carry him where he can lie more like a Christian.”

It was a young man Sam liked best of any in the camp. He was a general favorite; for, with his careless manner, and rough ways, there was an unselfish, generous temper, shown in numberless good turns, to those less experienced or less fortunate than himself. Nobody knew his real name, but they all called him “Major.” His costume was rather peculiar, even for the mines, his red flannel drawers and shirt being girt by a crimson military sash. For the six weeks since his arrival at Larkin’s Bar, he had not been guilty of the extravagance of a pair of pantaloons; it was the only economy, however, that could be set down to his credit, as the store-keeper could testify. His eyes and teeth were almost all that could be seen of his face, a mass of brown, waving hair falling over his broad forehead, and his heavy beard reaching almost to his sash; but the eyes had always a good-natured smile, and his teeth were even and brilliantly white.

“Well, you’re not as heavy as you might be, are you, neighbor?” he said, lifting Mr. Gilman, as if he had been a child, when he found he was unable to assist himself. Sam followed with a brandy-flask, some one had brought forward; brandy was both food and medicine to most of them. He had never seen severe illness before, and was entirely ignorant of what ought to be done. There was no physician within miles of them, and no medicine except stimulants, if there had been. The brandy was, perhaps, the best thing Mr. Gilman could have taken just then—so weak and exhausted; but when the fever came back at night, more violent than ever, Sam could only bathe his forehead and hands with cold water, while he listened to his wild ravings.

The gold seemed to haunt Mr. Gilman the whole time. He assured Sam, over and over again, that it was all stolen, every cent of it, in the most pitiful tone, and then the expression of his face changed to cunning, and he would whisper—“We’ll cheat them all, Sammy, Tucker and the rest. I guess your mother can get along, don’t you? She knows how to manage, and Abby’s a smart one. I guess we won’t send just now; you don’t mean to make me, do you, Sammy? It might get lost, and none of us would be better off, would we?”—or hours of lethargy followed, from which it was impossible to rouse him, the convulsive motion of his hands, or his vacant, rolling eyes, terrifying the solitary boy.

The miners came to offer any service, with their sincere, hearty kindness, but there was nothing to be done, and their time was too precious to be wasted. The Major came oftener than any of the rest, and all that he advised Sam tried to do. It was a relief to be busy about something, for though he did not think his father’s life was in danger, it was very hard to see him suffer so. The Major talked as encouragingly as he could, and told him not to be down-hearted; but the next week dragged very slowly, and he could not help being discouraged, as the fever and chills continued. Mr. Gilman’s frame wasted, and his sunken eyes and haggard face were painful to look at, even when at rest,—and then came that last awful change, which all but the love-blinded watcher had foreseen from the first.

Poor, lonely boy! He could not believe it was death, though the wan, shadowy look startled him, as he stooped down to moisten the parched lips with water. He left the sick man alone for the first time, while he went to call assistance, for night was coming, and he thought something might be done or wanted before daylight.

It was too late for earthly help. The men knew it was death, they were only too familiar with that fixed and rigid expression. They spoke in low voices to each other, and did all that was to be done, almost as tenderly as women, thinking, perhaps, that their turn might come soon. Sam watched them, following every motion, but he did not hear half they said to him, or scarcely understand what they were doing. The shock was too sudden for boyish grief or fear.