Not far from the kraal there dwelt a little Dutch shoemaker of those fair proportions doubtless intended by the illustrious Knickerbocker, when he compared one of his progenitors to a robustious beer-barrel mounted on skids. This little Dutchman was sitting one evening in the door of his tent, tranquilly smoking his pipe, and watching the horseman ineffectually striving to drive an unusually vicious animal into the pound, when the fierce beast suddenly made a dash in his direction. There was no safety but in flight, so hastily starting up, he rushed into his tent, hoping thus to elude the attack; but the ox, too cunning to be deceived so easily, or unable to check his headlong career, dashed in after him, and the next moment burst madly down the hill, carrying the tent on his horns. It was at first thought that the unlucky shoemaker had shared the same fate; but when the bystanders came up, half dead with laughter, to the place where the tent had stood, they found him stuck fast in the chimney, where he had finally taken refuge, while his dumpy legs, the only part of him that was visible, were feebly beating the ashes below.
On being extricated from his awkward position he exclaimed, looking distractedly about him, "Dis ish von tam country vish I never did see. I vash schmoked myself mit a pipe, and tinking I vished I vash at home, and Hans, I say, you ish von great fool; why you don't go home? ven all to vunst, I see te pull put ish head in his tail, and come like von vat you call him? von shteam locofoco; and I run and get into mine chimney, and ven I tries to get up, den, mein himmel! I vash not able to get town; and ven I tries to get town, I vasht not able to get up; and ven dey pull me town, de teufel ish in mein tent, and meinself and mein chimney ish out of te doors."
Being now snugly settled in our winter quarters, with an abundant supply of provisions for several months, we began to cast about in our thoughts for some foolish easy way of getting at the treasures locked up in the bank above us. The most natural and direct way would have been to put the earth in buckets, carry it down to the river, and wash it there in small rockers as we had done before. But we were tired of small rockers. We never could see a full-grown man sitting on a wet stone as if hatching his one solitary egg by the side of one of those ridiculous machines, his body bent forward at an angle of twenty-five degrees, and his knees as high as his chin, without a strong indication to laugh. The Long Tom demanded no such fruitless incubation, and was in other respects especially fitted for the plan we now adopted.
Our bank ran back from the river some two hundred yards with an almost level surface, then rose abruptly in irregular spurs or promontories. The gulleys between these had been the preceding winter the channels of small streams, that would together have furnished an abundant supply of water for a Long Tom. By building a dam at the foot of one of these gullies, a small pond would be formed from which as a reservoir we could bring the water in a canal to the middle of our claim, and thus avoid the necessity of carrying the earth to the river. If this expedient should be successful, five or six cents to the bucket would enable us to make half an ounce a day; and as the quantity of earth was almost unlimited, five hundred to a thousand dollars apiece seemed no very extravagant estimate for our winter's work. As the rainy season, however, would not probably set in for several weeks, we deferred the execution of our design till the last moment.
October 8th, I walked with St. John to Sacramento, in hopes of obtaining letters, as we had not heard from home for several months. The reader will, doubtless, suppose that I must have been very miserable, indeed, when he remembers the prancing hopes on which I had bounded over the same road only one short year before. But this is a great mistake. True, I had no horse, as I had so fondly imagined; but, then, I was a very clumsy rider, nor was I encumbered with those awkward saddle-bags. Besides, the day was most delightful and exhilarating. The air, the trees, the dull earth seemed drenched, through and through saturated with the transparent light. When we had gone about three miles, we met a man gnawing a biscuit. "How far is it to Willow Spring?" said St. John. The man held out his biscuit, that we might see how much he had eaten. "I bought this at the house," said he, "so you can see it is not very far." In about a quarter of a biscuit, we came to the Spring; the little green slope was still there, but not quite so green as it was before, and I showed St. John just where we had slept, and the little circle of ashes where we had boiled our coffee, and the half-burnt stones. Heigho! how very funny it seemed.
But the road was no longer so lonely; many new inns or ranches had been built in the edge of the forest, with such enticing names as "Missouri House," "New England Hotel," &c., besides two or three half-way houses—a most inhospitable sound, as if nobody ever thought of stopping, but was perpetually hurried on to some mysterious somewhere beyond.
Presently we came to one, the air of which at once attracted our attention. A little room had been built out at one side, with a veranda in front. A rocking-chair stood in the veranda, and through the open door and window we saw a bit of carpet and the snowy sheets of a four-poster. "Women and children!" cried St. John.
"Women—yes; but where are the children?"
"There; don't you see?"
Under a noble oak that shaded one side of the house was suspended a lofty swing, with its polished, shining bit of board.