Sonora is an inland town, situated in the midst of one of the richest mineral regions in the southern part of the State. A stage-coach affords the most convenient and expeditious means of reaching this place, which lies about fifty miles to the south-east. Starting early in the morning, we travel as last as a dare-devil driver can make four horses convey us—frequently meeting and overtaking numerous pack trains, pedestrians and ox-teams, passing to and fro between the mines and Stockton. A part of the country over which our road leads us, is a somewhat elevated plain, which, being entirely destitute of trees and other vegetable products, presents a most dreary and uninviting prospect. We see nothing around us but the naked earth. There is no accommodation for either bird or beast—no resting-place for the one, nor food for the other. The pack-trains, pedestrians and ox-teams, constitute the only animal life in view; and as we see them plodding along over this barren waste, our memories are refreshed with vivid recollections of those stories, which we read in former days, of caravans crossing the great desert of Sahara.
It is a fact worthy of being here recorded, as illustrative of the success of the miners, that we shall observe a larger number returning on foot than we find going. I was amused one day, while on my way to the regions of hidden treasure, when meeting a ragged, hairy, Esau-looking pedestrian, he hailed me with “Hallo.â€� “How are you?â€� answered I. “Which way?â€� asked he. “To the mines,â€� replied I. “Well, my friend,â€� said he, “you will excuse me for speaking plainly; this is a free country and I presume you are at liberty to go to the mines or to the d—l, just as you please; but, mark my words, if you are going to the mines to dig, I’ll be d—d if you don’t rue the act.â€� “May-be not,â€� remarked I. “Very well,â€� he added, “you’ll see. By the time you delve and toil two long years, under the broiling sun as I have done, and have seen others do, without making a decent living, you’ll perceive the truth of what I tell you.â€�
Steadily pursuing our course, about twelve o’clock we came to the Stanislaus River, a small tributary stream of the San Joaquin. Here we stop to change horses and get dinner, there being a sort of bastard hotel near the brink of the river. Numerous Indians, naked and hungry, could be seen prowling about this place, or seated in squads, partaking of a mess of worms, young wasps, grasshoppers, or any other similar dainty to which their good stars may lead them. It was a long time before the savage creatures would tolerate the presence of the white man amongst them; but they have been so repeatedly routed in battle, that they have now given up open hostility and are comparatively peaceable; still they secretly cherish the most implacable enmity to our race, and improve every opportunity to dispatch us when they can do so without being detected. They gain nothing, however, by these covert misdeeds; for our people, understanding their insidious conduct, retaliate by deliberately shooting them down whenever they come in their way. What the white man’s life is valued at by the Indian, is probably not known; but the white man hurls the Indian into eternity with as much nonchalance as though he were a squirrel.
Having appeased our appetites and secured the services of a fresh team, we cross the river and resume our journey. As we advance towards the place of our destination, the face of the country changes, from level plains to rugged slopes and woodlands. In the forenoon our road, though disagreeably dusty, was both smooth and straight, but now it winds over rocky glades, hills and gullies; and as the wheels of our vehicle mount and descend the rough impediments, we are jarred and shaken without mercy. Approaching still nearer the end of our journey, we have to contend with a more difficult and uneven surface; but being in charge of a very skillful driver, we are drawn safely over every rock and crag.
Arriving in Sonora between sundown and dark, we repair to a public house, and bespeak supper and lodgings for the night. The best hotel in the place is a one-story structure, built of unhewn saplings, covered with canvas and floored with dirt. It consists of one undivided room, in which the tables, berths and benches are all arranged. Here we sleep, eat and drink. Four or five tiers of berths or bunks, one directly above another, are built against the walls of the cabin, by means of upright posts and cross-pieces, fastened with thongs of raw-hide. The bedding is composed of a small straw mattress about two feet wide, an uncased pillow stuffed with the same material, and a single blanket. When we creep into one of these nests, it is optional with us whether we unboot or uncoat ourselves; but it would be looked upon as an act of ill-breeding, even in California, to go to bed with one’s hat on. Having once resigned ourselves into the arms of Morpheus, we are not likely to be disturbed by the drunken yells and vociferations of night-brawlers, now that we have become accustomed to such things. The noisy curses of the rabble will have no more effect upon us than the roaring water-fall or the mill-wheel has upon the miller. Night glides away, morning dawns, and we rise from our bunks to battle with another day. On the outside of the tavern, whither we betake ourselves to wash, are a tub of water, a basin and a towel, for all the guests; but as only one person can perform his ablutions at a time, it will be necessary for us to form ourselves in a line, and take our turn—the first comers being entitled to the front places. We are now ready to replenish the inner man. The bar is convenient for those who wish to imbibe. Breakfast is announced. We seat ourselves at the table. Before us is a reasonable quantity of beans, pork and flapjacks, served up in tin plates. Pea tea, which the landlord calls coffee with a bold emphasis, is handed to us, and we help ourselves to such other things as may be within reach.
No matter what kinds or qualities of viands are set before us, so that there be sufficient, for our stomachs have become so well tempered by this time that we feast upon them with as much gusto as if we were dining in a French restaurant. Neither spices, sauces nor seasonings are necessary to accommodate them to the palate. Our appetites need no nursing. Honest hunger disdains such dyspeptic accompaniments as the contents of cruets and casters. The richest condiments are the poorest provisions.
Our fast is broken—we are satisfied. The proprietor of the hotel, with his two male assistants, begins to clear off the table. Women have no hand in these domestic affairs. There is not a female about the establishment. All the guests, owners and employees are men. The dishes are washed, the blankets straightened in the berths; and while the cook is preparing dinner, some of the tavern-loungers seat themselves around the table, to take a friendly game of euchre, whist, seven-up, laugh-and-lay-down, old-maid, commerce or matrimony, while others saunter off to the gambling houses, of which there are about half a dozen in the place, to play at roulette, monte, faro, poker, twenty-one, all-fours or lansquenet. Such is hotel life in California, especially in the country towns and throughout the mining region.
Frequently several of the guests are fuddled, and as there are no partitions or apartments in the building, by which one person or set of persons may be separated from another, they are a most prolific source of annoyance to their sober neighbors. I recollect one occasion particularly, when, fatigued by a long day’s journey, I stopped at one of these mountain taverns in the hope of enjoying a comfortable night’s rest. Soon after eating my supper, which consisted of the standard dish, pork and beans, I crept into one of the farthest bunks, annoyed by the blackguardism and segar fumes of a group of drunken card-players, who occupied a table near the centre of the room. These swaggering inebriates, noisy as they were, did not prevent me from sleeping, as I had become habituated to witnessing such nocturnal carousals; but towards midnight, in came a wild, blustering lunatic, who had lost his reason about a week before, yelling and screaming as if a legion of fiends were after him. He was bare-footed, bare-headed and bare-legged, having no clothing upon his person, except a shirt; and I understood afterwards that he had been roaming about the place four or five days and nights in this condition. Making some inquiry concerning his history, I learned that he was a lawyer by profession, that he had formerly figured as an able and influential member of the Maine Legislature, and that, becoming embarrassed in his financial affairs, he left his family and emigrated hither in the hope of retrieving his fortune. Shortly after his arrival, not finding employment for his talent as a counselor, he determined to seek the favor of the mines; but his efforts in that quarter proved unavailing. For nearly a year he had toiled vigorously and incessantly, but to no purpose. He could not discover the hidden treasure which he sought. Disappointed and chagrined at the result, he resigned himself to the bottle. The remembrance of his dependent and far distant family, coupled with the mischievous influence of ardent spirits, increased and sharpened his mental suffering; his mind began to vacillate—his reason lost its equilibrium, and we now find him a raving maniac. More than half naked, friendless and forlorn, he wanders about the streets and through the woods, day and night—a poor, miserable, crazy vagabond. Why, it may be asked, was there not some public provision made for the removal and security of this pitiable nuisance? Simply because it was in California. Here, where there is nothing as it should be, this unhappy man was allowed to run at large. No one cared for him. He was supposed to be harmless, and was, therefore, permitted to live. If he had inflicted any bodily injury upon any one, he would probably have been shot or stabbed, and that would have been the end of the drama. Cases of this or a similar character are to be met with almost every day. I only mention this as a single instance.
To give a faint idea of the precocity and waywardness of youth in this country, I will relate a bloody incident which occurred at another hotel, where I had put up for a night’s lodging. In this case the landlord, a short, lean Massachusetts Yankee, was married and had his family with him. His eldest son, Ned, had not seen his ninth year. Nevertheless, this boy had learned to gamble. Whether his father or mother had instructed him in the art, or whether he had been tutored by the blacklegs frequenting the hotel, I am unable to say; but it was very evident that his parents cared very little about the matter, for they permitted him to play cards in their own house, and seemed to pride themselves upon his proficiency. Indeed, he was so dexterous in his manner of shuffling and dealing, and so quick to perceive the course and probable result of the game, that he was known throughout the neighborhood as the gambling prodigy. It may be questioned whether Hoyle himself was so conversant with diamonds, hearts, clubs and spades at so early an age.
Supper was now over, and the tables were surrounded with players. Little Ned had his place amongst them. I watched him more than an hour. He handled the cards with so much grace, skill and agility, and seemed to be so perfectly familiar with every branch of the game, that I could not withhold my admiration. As the night advanced, the parties became involved in a quarrel. Some one accused Ned of unfairness in changing the position of certain cards. Violent oaths and maledictions followed this accusation. Inflamed with anger, and assuming a menacing attitude, Ned denounced his accuser (a full grown man, three times as large and four times as old as himself,) as “a pusillanimous liar and scoundrel,â€� and added, “G-d d—n you, I’ll shoot you!â€� By this time the excitement had reached a high pitch. Things began to wear an alarming aspect. Several persons took sides in the matter, some for Ned and some against him. A general row seemed to be inevitable. Ned had the largest number of friends; but his enemies were clamorous and obstinate in their assertions that he had departed from the rules of the game, and declared in positive terms that he was a disciplined cheat.