The faces of the men were anything but attractive. Most of them were heavily bearded, with long, frowsy, unkempt hair, dangling about the shoulders. Every one displayed side arms, and there could be no mistake in setting them down as a reckless lot, whom a peaceable citizen would not care to meet anywhere.
The leader of this mongrel gang was a massive man, who bestrode so small a mule that his feet were only a few inches from the ground. There was little semblance of discipline in the company, but a certain rude deference to the fellow, who kept his place at the head, and did the loudest talking, ornamented with plenty of expletives, indicated his prominence among his fellows.
The mountain tramps had descried the three men standing at the side of the cañon, watching them as 240 they approached. They ceased their boisterous talking and studied them as they drew near.
“Howdy, pards?” called the leader, raising his two fingers to his forehead and making a military salute, to which our friends responded coolly, hoping the company would keep on without stopping.
But they were disappointed. Colonel Briggs, as his men called him, suddenly shouted “Whoa!” in a voice that could have been heard a mile off, and pulled so hard on his bridle rein that he drew the jaws of the mule against his breast, while the rider lay back almost on the haunches of his animal, who showed his contrariness by walking round in a short circle before standing still.
“Which way, pards?” asked the leader, while his followers, who with more or less effort succeeded in checking their mules, curiously surveyed the three miners.
“We intend to visit Sacramento,” replied Captain Dawson.
“Huh! that’s where we come from.”
“On your way to the diggings I presume?” continued the captain courteously.
“That’s what’s the matter; we’re going to New Constantinople, which is the name of a mining settlement in Dead Man’s Gulch. Do you know anything of the place?”