CHAPTER LXXI.
THE BRIGHT SIDE OF PROSPECTING.
In the place where we had encamped for dinner there was on one side of the ravine, and at the height of about fifty feet above its bed, a long bench of rocks on which were piled, tier upon tier, rocks that bore a striking resemblance to sacks of grain. Always having the “evil one” in their winds when not in the wilderness, the boys called this place the “Devil’s Levee.” Another place, on the opposite side of the cañon, where a dozen or more huge, egg-shaped boulders, set on end, stood nodding this way and that, they christened the “Granite Polka.”[Polka.”]
Continuing our journeysners were at work who were reported to be making from $10 to $20 per day. They seemed much surprised to see our party and told us that they were making nothing. None of us believed this, and, without waiting to unpack their animals, two or three of our men rushed off up the ravine to secure claims. I asked to see the kind of gold they were getting, and was shown a pan in which were five or six specks about one fourth as large as the head of a pin. The man who had told me in Silver City, about the big strike, and who had induced me to join the expedition, said the men were fooling us; he was sure they had rich diggings. Taking the pan, this man got down into the hole that had been dug by the miners, and got a panful of the best-looking gravel he could find. Winking for me to follow, he started down the stream to a small pool. When we were out of hearing he said he thought the men were trying to “play us.” “They don’t want it known that there is anything here,” said he, “until their friends are all on hand to gobble up the ground. You can bet high that I’ll get a good prospect out of this pan of dirt. It looks like the right stuff.”
Meanwhile he was washing it down, stopping once in a while as he neared the bottom to flit the water over it in the expectation of seeing a “chispa” or a “nugget.” The less sand there was in the pan the longer grew his face. At last all was panned out, even to the last grain of “black sand,” and nought remained but the few little specks of gold (“colors”) originally in the pan.
“Skunked, by the holy spoons,” cried he. I then washed out the pan and filled it with earth out of a crevice—the best I could find—panned it down, and had three small colors.
We then went back to the camp of the miners who had dug the prospect-hole and asked how the story got started that they had found gold of the size of peas and were making from $10 to $20 per day. They knew nothing about it, but one of them finally recollected that when he went to Silver City for a rocker he had said to some one that from the number and shape of the “colors” they were finding on the surface he did not doubt they would find them as big as peas when they reached the bed-rock. Some one then remarked—‘If you do you’ll be able to make from $10 to $20 per day,’—from this grew the story of the rich strike in El Dorado Cañon. We all felt rather “cheap” when we heard this explanation, the perfect truthfulness of which we could not doubt. I have known many grand mining excitements that had even less foundation. Even this little “sport” did not end with our visit to the cañon.
After we had been at home a week, and when we supposed it was well understood that the diggings were too poor to pay, parties were still rushing thither. Presently the story crossed the Sierras, and the California papers said that, “in the El Dorado Cañon diggings, Nevada, miners are making from $20 to $40 per day with rockers; and the gold is of fine quality, being worth $17 per ounce.” Though our ardor was a good deal cooled by what we had learned in regard to the diggings, we were not altogether discouraged. The boys got their picks, pans and shovels, and dividing into small parties, struck out in various directions, up and down the cañon, and among the small ravines putting in from the hills; agreeing that wherever the best prospects were found, claims should be staked out for all. At night all hands returned, and nothing had been found that would pay—a few small colors was all that could be found, and they could be obtained almost everywhere. It was something like the present Black Hills mines. Lighting our camp-fire we baked our slap-jacks, fried our bacon, and made a glorious meal, after which pipes were lighted, and many stories told of the good old days of “49,” when the pockets of every honest miner overflowed with gold. When each man had spun his yarn it was time to think of sleep, and every man rolled himself in his blankets and stretched himself in the best and softest spot he could find, looking up at the stars in the ceiling of his bedroom until he fell asleep. At daylight we were astir, Pike was among the first up. Tom did not “unroll” till breakfast was almost ready. He then crawled out and proceeded to pull on his boots, taking a seat on a pack-saddle.
About this time I observed that Pike was closely watching Tom’s movements. Tom had got one boot on and his toes started in the other, when he stopped and yawned lazily. Rousing himself, he then drew his boot on with a “chuck.” His foot had hardly struck bottom before he gave a yell and turned deadly pale. Grasping his foot he tried to pull his boot off, but lost balance and rolled to the ground.
“Pull off my boot, quick, somebody! There is a scorpion in it!” cried Tom.
Pike managed to be the first to reach Tom, and catching him by the ankle began tugging desperately, dragging Tom here and there, with nothing but the top of his head touching the ground.