"I say, Cap!" At the same time pulling from the folds of his blanket a dangerous-looking "pocket pistol," he put the muzzle to his mouth, and discharged the main portion of the contents down his throat.
"What d'ye say, Cap?"
Now I claim to be under no legal obligation to state what I said or did on that occasion; but this much I am willing to avow, that upon resuming our journey there was a glorious sense of freedom and independence in our adventurous mode of life. The fresh air, odorous with the scent of pine forests and wild flowers; the craggy rocks overhung with the grape and the morning-glory; the merry shouts of the Mexican vaqueros, mingled with the wild dashing of the river down the cañon on our right; the free exercise of every muscle; the consciousness of exemption from all farther restraints of office, were absolutely inspiring. I think a lyrical poem would not have exceeded my powers on that occasion. Every faculty seemed invigorated to the highest pitch of perfection. Hang the dignity of office! A murrain upon party politicians and inspector generals! To the bottomless pit with all vouchers, abstracts, and accounts current! I scorn that meagre and brainless style of the heads of the Executive Departments, "Sir,—Your services are no longer—" What dunce could not write a more copious letter than that? Who would be a slave when all nature calls upon him in trumpet tones to be free? Who would sell his birthright for a mess of pottage when he could lead the life of an honest miner—earn his bread by the sweat of his brow—breathe the fresh air of heaven without stint or limit? And of all miners in the world, who would not be a Washoe miner? Beyond question, this was a condition of mind to be envied and admired; and, notwithstanding the two pair of heavy blankets on my back, and a stiff pair of boots on my feet that galled my ankles most grievously, I really felt lighter and brighter than for years past. Nor did it seem surprising to me then that so many restless men should abandon the haunts of civilization, and seek variety and freedom in the wilderness of rugged mountains comprising the mining districts of the Sierra Nevada. The life of the miner is one of labor, peril, and exposure; but it possesses the fascinating element of liberty, and the promise of unlimited reward. In the midst of privations, amounting, at times, to the verge of starvation, what glowing visions fill the mind of the toiling adventurer! Richer in anticipation than the richest of his fellow-beings, he builds golden palaces, and scatters them over the world with a princely hand. He may not be a man of imagination; but in the secret depths of his soul there is a latent hope that some day or other he will strike a "lead," and who knows but it may be a solid mountain of gold, spangled with diamonds?
THE POCKET PISTOL.
The road from Placerville to Strawberry Flat is for the most part graded, and no doubt is a very good road in summer; but it would be a violation of conscience to recommend it in the month of April. The melting of the accumulated snows of the past winter had partially washed it away, and what remained was deeply furrowed by the innumerable streams that sought an outlet in the ravines. In many places it seemed absolutely impracticable for wheeled vehicles; but it is an article of faith with California teamsters that wherever a horse can go a wagon can follow. There were some exceptions to this rule, however, for the road was literally lined with broken-down stages, wagons, and carts, presenting every variety of aspect, from the general smash-up to the ordinary capsize. Wheels had taken rectangular cuts to the bottom; broken tongues projected from the mud; loads of dry-goods and whisky-barrels lay wallowing in the general wreck of matter; stout beams cut from the road-side were scattered here and there, having served in vain efforts to extricate the wagons from the oozy mire. Occasionally these patches of bad road extended for miles, and here the scenes were stirring in the highest degree. Whole trains of pack-mules struggled frantically to make the transit from one dry point to another; "burros," heavily laden, were frequently buried up to the neck, and had to be hauled out by main force. Now and then an enterprising mule would emerge from the mud, and, by attempting to keep the edge of the road, lose his foothold, and go rolling to the bottom of the cañon, pack and all. Amid the confusion worse confounded, the cries and maledictions of the vaqueros were perfectly overwhelming; but when the mules stuck fast in the mud, and it became necessary to unpack them, then it was that the vaqueros shone out most luminously. They shouted, swore, beat the mules, kicked them, pulled them, pushed them, swore again; and when all these resources failed, tore their hair, and resorted to prayer and meditation. (Opposite is a faint attempt at the vaquero sliding-scale.)
CALIFORNIA STAGE-DRIVER.