History of the big bonanza

by Dan De Quille

HON. J. P. JONES.

CHAPTER LXX.
FUN AND FROLIC.

As it may be of interest to persons who have never been in the mining-regions of the Pacific Coast, I shall give an account of a prospecting trip which I took in Washoe, in 1860, just after the Indian troubles. Although no grand discovery was made, a sketch of the trip will serve to show the manner in which such expeditions were at one time conducted.

I was at that time camped at Silver City. One day a miner came to my cabin in a great state of excitement and said he had just learned that some men had struck placer-diggings of extraordinary richness on El Dorado Cañon, a large cañon to the southward of the Carson River. He said: “They are getting gold as large as peas, and are making from $10 to $20 per man with rockers.” A dozen or more in the camp were let into the secret, and we soon had several mules packed with “grub”—flour, beans, bacon, tea, and sugar—and were ready for a start. We wished to reach the new gold-region in time to get good claims and in advance of the rush of prospectors that was likely to occur as soon as news of the new strike should leak out. Not a soul in the camp knew where we were going, and as we marched down Gold Cañon, the miners pushed aside the blankets which were hung up as doors to their cabins and gazed in wonder upon our caravan. Each countenance said more plainly than words could have expressed it: “A big strike has been made somewhere. Those fellows know where it is and are going to it. I must find out about it and be off after them!” With a great clatter of pots, kettles, gold-pans, and frying-pans, our mules trotted into Chinatown (now Dayton). In this camp our “grand entry” created something of a sensation, and curiosity was seen in every face. Even the unimpressible Chinamen gazed upon us in almond-eyed astonishment. We were nearly all on foot and carried picks and shovels upon our shoulders, and long knives and six-shooters slung to our belts.

All who saw us were dying to ask us what was up; but, evidently feeling that it was a secret expedition, no man ventured to question us. Already we were rich, in imagination, and all felt as jolly as so many millionaires setting off on a pleasure excursion. Indeed, miners generally make these trips a sort of pleasure excursion and give about as much time to deviltry, and to curiously wandering about and viewing the wonders of the wilds, as they do to the real business of the journey.

Passing through Chinatown, we were soon at the Carson River, where we found trouble that we had not thought of. The river was high and swift; nearly all of our party were on foot; the mules were heavily packed, and there was but one horse without a load. This horse, however, was a large and powerful animal. Tom Lovel, his owner, finally rode across the stream and found that the water just reached to the horse’s back. The pack-mules were driven across the stream after Tom by means of clubs and stones thrown after them. All got safely over but one puny and unlucky beast that was carried down the stream. The little rascal never attempted to swim until he had been swept some distance down the river, when he turned his head against the current and paddled away like a good fellow, for about ten minutes, without gaining or losing an inch, then with a mournful, despairing groan he gave up and floated ashore on the same side from which he started. Tom then came back on his horse, and throwing a lasso about the neck of the dripping little beast, towed him to the other shore, despite his moanings, and sundry other expostulatory demonstrations. Next we foot-men were, one at a time, mounted behind Tom and borne across the stream, all but myself landing in shape. I was the last to cross, and, on mounting the opposite shore, Tom, having overmuch confidence in the strength and activity of his horse, insisted upon trying to ascend a perpendicular bank. The consequence was that we both slid back upon the horse’s rump, causing his hind feet to sink into the mud until he assumed a perpendicular position.

The next thing I saw was that horse’s head coming straight into my face. There was then a dull splash and a surging sound, and I was at the bottom of the Carson River, with Tom and horse a-top of me. I did some lively work for a time, and finally came to the surface with my mouth full of black mud. Tom got out in some way before I came to the surface. While I was pouring the water out of my boots, wringing out my shirt, and firing off and reloading my revolver, the majority of our party moved on, Tom allowing a friend to ride his horse. Only Tom, myself, and a Missourian known as “Pike” (the man who found the “stuff compasses are made of”) remained behind; and when we finally started the others were nearly a mile away. We had not travelled half a mile before we came to a bayou or slough, half as large as the river itself and of which it was a sort of a cut-off. Here we halted. The “boys” had gone on with the animals, and, seeing that there was no other way—and being about as wet as water could make me—I plunged in and waded across, the water coming almost to my armpits. Tom hesitated and hallooed to try to make those in advance come back with his horse, but they were beyond hearing. Finally he offered Pike half a dollar to carry him across the slough on his back, which offer Pike gladly accepted. When Tom mounted Pike’s back he settled him down in the mud nearly to his knees, and when he got out into the stream, Pike floundered about alarmingly.

Tom drew up his legs and wrapped them about Pike’s hips, hugging to him as closely as a young Indian.