“OH, say, Pike, do you remember when Bill Burnes and his crowd of border ruffians undertook to hang that colored chap, Bartlett, over on Weaver Creek in ’51?” asked Tennessee.
“Oh, yaas, indeed,” answered Pike, “for you know I was right thar and seen it all.”
“Well,” Yank continued, “when I was down there to the Bay there was an article about that affair published in the Argonaut. But wasn’t that little Providence chap, Dick Arnold, clear grit, though? But, pshaw, who would want to run the risk of his life just to save a darky, anyhow? You remember that I asked him afterwards how he could run such a risk for a colored man, and a stranger, too.
“‘Oh, well,’ says the little black-eyed cuss, ‘if it had been a yellow dog I would have done it all the same upon general principles, jest to show that crowd that they couldn’t run this country any longer.
“‘Why, you remember that ’twas this same crowd, the Bill Burnes’ gang, who undertook to make trouble when we voted upon the adoption of the constitution at Colonel Backus’ hotel; said they didn’t want any constitution, governor, or law and order, anyhow, out here in California, and they gave us to understand that if we Yanks undertook that sort of business they would clean us out. At the meeting they tried to scare us out, but found we didn’t scare worth a cent. So you see, boys, when they started in to lynch the darky, Bartlett, me and my pard concluded that they jest shouldn’t do anything of the kind. But, pshaw, we didn’t run so much risk as you think, for we knew that kind of a crowd. Why, when they see me running over on top of their heads, with my knife in between my teeth to cut the rope, they knew right off that some of them derned Yanks were around and they had better take keer, and they did, too.’”
“But the best of it was,” said Pike, “to see old Schowton, the sheriff, and the whole crowd jest go for the brush when Burnes throwed the rope over the darkey’s head, and then jerked him up into the top of the oak tree. Yes, and the judge, jury, sheriff and all hands ran a race to see who would get into the brush first.”
“Well, but where were you and Yank all this time?” asked another.
“Well, I reckon’ we made for the brush, too, and I jest thought there was agoin’ to be some shootin’, sure, for there was more than thirty of that crowd along with Burnes, but when they seen them two little chaps comin’ up the hill agin with the darkey, one on each side of him, with their guns in their hands, they jest wilted.”
“Do you remember the chap, Joe Hart, who had that rich claim in White Rock cañon, up near Hangtown,” Yank asked. “It was in ’50 that they said he had $60,000 worth of dust salted down at that time. Well, blamed if I didn’t meet him on Market street, in San Francisco, with a back-load of brooms. He was peddling brooms, and told me that he could make a very good living, that is if he wern’t very particular about how good he lived. And one day I was riding in one of the street cars, and who in thunder do you s’pose was driving it? Why, old Varmount, as we used to call the little chap who had such a big claim at Forest Hill in ’56. He went in some kind of business down thar, and when his money gave out his business followed suit, and he got a job of car driving for a living. I tell you it isn’t any use for an old miner to go down there with his dust to go into business among strangers. There are lots of chaps down there who are just laying for that kind of game. They had better keep their dust up here, and help build up and improve the old worn-out and deserted mining regions.
“For I tell you what it is: up here among these old hills is just going to be the garden spot of California. No finer climate in the world, or soil that is any better for raising fruit, grape vines, or kids either. I just reckon that we old Forty-niners will live to see the time when all these old hills, flats and ravines where we used to