Indian and Scout: A Tale of the Gold Rush to California

by F. S. Brereton

It was with a feeling of eager expectation that all went back to their troughs, and recommenced throwing dirt into them and rocking. At the end of three hours, when they ceased work for the night, it was found that Tom's bulkhead had indeed caught the richest harvest. There were a dozen nuggets to be seen, though not of the same size as that which he had first discovered. Three more, about the size of a bean, were unearthed from the next two troughs, while the washings of the troughs below were without nuggets. But the harvest of gold dust was plentiful, so good, indeed, that it became obvious at once that if only such fortune could continue for a week, the party would pay all outgoings, the expenses of their return to New York, if need be, and still leave a sum in reserve which, when divided, would give each member of the firm a handsome sum to bank.

"But we ain't goin' ter leave in a week," said Tom with a grin of exultation, as he sat hugging the camp fire that night and nursing a pannikin of spirits. "There's dirt enough between them cliffs ter keep us going fer a year, and I looks at it this way: Ef it's rich out here, at the end of the stream, so to speak, it'll be richer still the farther in we goes; 'cos the stream will have been more sluggish. That will have allowed the gold ter settle, and whar thar's been big rocks and boulders, with holes and pockets in 'em, the chances aer we shall hit upon more nuggets. Of course we shan't get all the gold thar is, by a heap. Some'll be washed through the troughs, and the catch tank we've made won't hold it all. But, ef it's thar, as I ain't a doubt, why, we'll get enough and ter spare of it."

As the days went on it became evident that the little party had become possessed of a veritable gold mine, for their takings at the end of each day were greater than those on the first occasion. But they were not all the while engaged in rocking the cradles. There was much hard work to be accomplished, and in this Jack took a fair share. Indeed, he worked for hours at his anvil, forging new iron bands to bind extensions of their wooden waterway, or making various fittings for other parts of the plant. There were spades and picks to be repaired now and again, though not so often as would have been the case had they not pressed water into their service.

When he had a few idle moments, nothing delighted him more than to clamber towards the point where the gigantic nozzle was secured in its wooden cradle, to watch the jet of water surging from it, and to see the stream splay out as it leaped into the open, and then dash itself into thousands and thousands of the minutest drops as it struck the trembling gravel. There was something wonderfully fascinating about the iridescent colours which played to and fro in the spray, as the sun's rays flickered and poured upon it. There was a note which was almost musical coming from the very lip of the nozzle, while without cessation there was the slither of loosened stones and dirt, the thud of heavier pieces and of boulders, and, on occasion, when the jet had undermined the gravel to some great extent, a mighty, awe-inspiring commotion, as tons upon tons of material came thundering down.

If he tired of the neighbourhood of the jet, of that fascinating gush and gurgle of water, and of the rainbow colours which played about the spray so long as the sun's rays fell, he had merely to step down a few paces, and there was more to interest him. For, from the point where the water played, a surging stream tumbled and roared downhill in the huge channel prepared for it—a yellow, dirty flood, as if the water came from a river after heavy falls of rain. Who would have thought to look at that yellow stream that it contained riches, riches long hidden in the gravel, scoured from the rocks of past ages, and lying for many a century undisturbed in the river bed? Riches, too, which man's industry and courage and astuteness were now bringing to light, and separating from its grosser surroundings.

"Though I don't know as it aer always fer the best," soliloquized Steve one day, as he stood watching the scene with Jack beside him. "This here hunt fer gold don't always lead ter goodness. Thar's a sight of bad blood made over it, either here, at the diggin's, or way back in the settlements. In the first place, it seems ter me that the scum of the earth collects whar the men aer at work, lookin' ter make their fortunes—thieves, and gamblers, and sichlike—hangin' about like a set of jackals, ter take the stuff from the men who find it. Thar's murders been committed, Jack."

"I know, to my cost," answered our hero after a while; for up till now he had never ventured to tell his comrades that his own father had lost his life at the diggings. "A—a relative of mine was shot in one of the saloons out in California. He was murdered."

There was silence between them for a while, and then Steve spoke.

"Ah!" he said, as if he had been thinking deeply and looking back into the distance; "them murders was frequent some ten years ago. Out here in Californy thar was the biggest set of blackguards round the camps that was ever ter be met with. They ran saloons, and robbed the men as went thar, robbed 'em not only by providin' spirits that were so bad that they pisoned a fellow, while the price was that big it frightened yer, but robbed them at cards and games of chance. Then thar was bands that held up the gold trains makin' fer Sacramento and other cities, to bank the riches thar. And thar was scoundrels that looked like ordinary miners, and acted the part, but all the while they was ready fer murder, so long as they could steal the gold which others had made. I could tell yer a yarn about one of that sort, only jest now it wouldn't kinder suit this here place, it's that peaceful; and when I get to think of that 'ere ruffian, and tell of his treachery, why, it brings a bad taste inter the mouth, and one seems ter see quite different. One of these days I'll tell yer about him, and, ef yer like, yer can give me your yarn."

The very mention of such a matter sent Jack's thoughts back to the time when he was but a little fellow. He could remember his mother's grief when his father left for the diggings, and the great hope which he and his wife had that the trip he was about to make would prove successful and help them out of their troubles. He could cast his mind back, too, to that fatal day when the news came that Tom Kingsley had been killed in a brawl with his partner; that he had, in fact, been murdered. But he was too young at the time to feel the loss so greatly, though the tale had never escaped his memory. And then his thoughts wandered to his own troubles.