Not until the evening of the third day did Mr. Preuss turn up. While in a beautiful camp among live-oaks of the river valley they all heard a faint shout from the hills behind—and Kit, sharp-eyed, cried, instantly:
“There he is! I see him!”
It was Mr. Preuss, with wavering strides descending for the camp. They had little to offer him, except some roasted acorns bought from Indians. He, on his part, had a story to tell. He had eaten roots, and ants, and raw little frogs, and had tried to smoke live-oak leaves; and one night, in the timber, he had sought out two wolves, thinking that they were Indian dogs. At last he had met several Indians, who seemed afraid of him but had given him roasted acorns. Soon after, he had struck the trail of the squad, and now here he was.
All this time the march of the squad had been following down the course of the south or main fork of the American River of Northern California, as it rushes from the high western slope of the Sierras for the Sacramento. Almost at the spot where Mr. Preuss rejoined his anxious comrades was discovered, in scant four years, or on January 24, 1848, the placer gold of California, and quickly as spread the tidings down poured, from the Sierras, by the Frémont and Carson trail, the eager Forty-niners.
Mr. Preuss had rejoined the squad on March 5. Only about half the necessary saddle animals were left, but these were strong enough, now, to carry riders; and four and five at a time the squad rode, each division for an hour. Deer were seen, near at hand; the order was, not to pause for them, or for anything, but to press on, press on, for Sutter’s ranch, and rescue.
Gold was plentiful, but it was the gold of the California poppy covering the sward. The land was gay with flowers, and dignified with stately oaks. Tracks of horses and cattle were followed, to an Indian village, some of whose inmates wore cloth shirts; yet no information was gained. Next, was expectantly visited an adobe house with glass windows. Only Indians, apparently ignorant, inhabited it. Next, in a broad and grassy valley through which swept gently the noble river, was entered a larger Indian village. Its people were clean and wore cotton shirts and other factory clothing. One of the villagers spoke a little poor Spanish; but he said that there were no whites in that country.
“What!” exclaimed the lieutenant, while the hearts of the squad sank.
At this moment came riding another Indian, wearing a broad-brimmed, peaked straw hat; a ragged blanket through a slit in which his head had been thrust; light-blue cotton trousers; and upon his bare heels tremendous, jingling spurs. He sat in a cumbersome, high-pommelled, high-cantled saddle, with huge block stirrups hollowed out of solid wood. Upon his arm dangled a rawhide riata, or lasso.
“A su disposición, señors,” he greeted, in common Spanish. “At your service, gentlemen.”