An hour passed and still no sign of our companions. The fever in St. John's veins was quelled by the wind that searched us through, and we were compelled to warm our blood by taking once more to the road. We measured back three weary miles, expecting every moment to meet our little caravan; then, fearing lest we should miss them in some of the crossroads, we hurried back to our stopping place, having thus walked ten miles to accomplish not more than three.
The wagon came along at noon; we hailed its appearance with a sigh of satisfaction, and resolved not to lose sight of it again, that day at least. The road for the next four miles was well nigh invisible; but our course was marked with tolerable certainty by the quagmires through which we floundered. Some of the party were kept constantly in advance, sounding the mire with long sticks in order to find the hardest bottom, and it was nearly sundown when we came in sight of our intended stopping place. In sight of it, but not at it, for the road here took a wide circuit to avoid a low piece of ground, where the wagon would have been reduced to a total wreck.
"Don't leave me here, boys!" cried the judge, in despair, as he saw two or three skulking off towards the house, and surveyed with rueful countenance the prospect before him;—"the mules can never get through here in the world—see that now!" and at the word, the wheels on one side sunk quite up to the hub, and probably nothing but the axle prevented them from going quite out of sight. We were now, however, somewhat accustomed to this course of things, so putting our hands to the spokes with sullen resignation, while the driver whipped and shouted on his staggering mules, we in another hour arrived within a hundred yards of the inn, where the wagon stuck fast, nor men nor mules could move it further, every effort only serving to sink it deeper in the mire.
We took out our blankets and carried them to the house, while the judge unharnessed his mules and tied them to a tree in the rear of the building. The dining-room was full of guests, and I noticed that, without moving their heads, their eyes continually followed the movements of a buxom servant maid, who was darting back and forth between the supper-table and a cook-stove standing in the open porch. The look of quiet complacency that slowly came out on their weary faces was not owing merely to the fragrant steam that was lazily curling from the tempting dishes before them; it was dreamy and imaginative, and showed that their thoughts were far away by their own wives, and children, and cheerful firesides. After supper the tables were crowded to one side, and a single drowsy candle, that could hardly keep its own eyes open, watched over the busy sleepers. We spread our blankets in the open porch or verandah, and threw ourselves down, saturated with mud and water, and anything but enlivened by this dismal commencement of our expedition.
The next morning, however, the sun shone brightly; it dried our damps, revived our spirits, and gave us courage to encounter the dangers of the road, which the travellers who came from that direction represented as far worse than what we had already passed. We found their accounts by no means exaggerated. We had not gone far before one of the mules, stumbling in the slough, fell and broke the pole of the wagon, which we were then obliged to haul out ourselves. After repairing this damage, which was a very tedious operation, we again set forward; but were presently again brought to a stand-still by a long stretch of marshy ground where the mules were entirely helpless. Nothing was left for us but to carry everything across on our shoulders, and then, pulling the wagon over to firmer ground, we reloaded our goods and once more got under way—all in less than an hour. Broken carts and wagons strewed all the road; ten yoke of oxen were sometimes required to extricate one of the lumbering arks that had come over the plains, and we always knew long beforehand when we were approaching any place of unusual difficulty by the shouting, or rather yelling, of the drivers, which in those profound solitudes could be heard to a great distance.
By making incredible exertions, we succeeded in reaching Weaver Creek, ten miles from our last stopping-place, and here we halted for the night. Quite a village had grown up here since my first visit; a stage whirled, or, I should say, crawled through just after dark, and, in spite of the expostulations of the more timid passengers, kept on to Coloma. We slept under the wheels of a huge ox-wagon, over which we had spread the fly of our tent. The night was cold and damp, and in the morning I emptied half a pint of dew out of the hollow of the cloth; yet all the while St. John was drying up with a burning fever, and his strength was so far reduced that he could hardly endure the fatigue of even our short journeys. There was no help for it now, however, but to push on.
The next morning we crossed the creek. It was swollen by the late rains into an impetuous torrent, and it was a fine sight to watch the long train of wagons coming down to the ford one by one;—a splash—a spring—a scramble up the gravelly hill beyond. We crossed it lower down, on a fallen tree, and entered at once into the hill-country. Here we were no longer incommoded with mud, but found nearly as great an obstacle in the loose stones that covered the road, and the jagged rocks projecting from its surface. The forward axle received such a strain in one of these encounters that it snapped just after crossing the new bridge at Coloma, and we were consequently obliged to remain here till the next morning. We made a good supper out of our stores, slept magnificently in a carpenter's shop, and started the next day, about ten, to ascend the great Coloma hill. We had been told that it was utterly impossible for two mules to draw a loaded wagon up this ascent. However, we succeeded in torturing our way by spasmodic efforts to an elevation of several hundred feet, and then, finding it impossible to proceed any further, half of the load was taken out; and while the judge went on to the summit, followed by the rest of our companions, I remained behind, to watch over our goods and assist him in reloading on his return.
The scene before me was one never to be forgotten. Drawn back among the bushes and trees that shaded the hill, I looked down the winding path upon a wide valley, like an immense panorama, with the South Fork glancing, here and there, like a string of pearls among the hills, that peeped over each other's shoulders on every side as far as the eye could reach, bounded only in one direction, by the everlasting snows of the Sierra Nevada. Parties of miners flowed by in a continuous current, generally with packmules, but now and then a loaded wagon. All seemed bent on some urgent business; if they lagged for a few steps, the next moment they roused themselves, and, quickening their pace, urged on their unsympathizing four-footed companions. It was absolutely awful to see the crowds, and I involuntarily drew back farther into my snug retreat.
The whole of the mining region was at this season in a ferment. An ant-hill, just disturbed by some sudden alarm—a crowded steamboat, on the point of starting—afford apt illustrations of the frenzy that had now invaded the entire population. From a plausible conclusion that generally prevailed that the rivers would prove the richer the nearer their source, the great object with many was to penetrate as far into the mountains as possible. Rector's Bar, far up the Middle Fork, was the principal point of attraction in this section, while hundreds and thousands were hurrying with the same breathless eagerness over on to the Sacramento, the Yuba, and the Feather rivers.
Every one was afraid he should be too late—that he should not go to the richest placers—that he should not find the fortune intended for him—that he shouldn't be able to return home the coming winter—in short, that he should not improve the present golden opportunity to the very utmost. And the question was, in truth, one of no trifling interest. Such an opportunity would never again present itself, and hundreds who had thus far been disappointed, trusted to it as to their last resource,—hoping, in some of these, as they thought, untrodden valleys, to reap the same rich rewards that had fallen to the share of the first adventurers. On their present decision rested, therefore, in great measure, all their subsequent fortune.