Such sights were far from being uncommon in that year—1850. A year before, the Californian "gold-fever" broke out. The first rush was made by men—young and old. But then the fever spread. It infected all—the result was but natural. Family followed family. Almost from ocean to ocean an unbroken train of emigrants toiled wearily on—on toward the glittering phantom that but too often vanished in thin air when seemingly just within their grasp, leaving naught behind but wrecked hopes and ruined fortunes.
One link of the mighty human chain lies before our eyes. For nearly a week this valley has sheltered them. While others pressed on in the road for the yellow delusion, this party had been lying motionless, longing for yet dreading the summons to resume their pilgrimage.
A few hasty words will explain.
This party of emigrants, numbering nearly one hundred souls, was under the command of Caleb Mitchell. He started from Eastern Ohio, in company with several of his neighbors, heading for the Land of Gold, taking with him his wife and daughter. Little by little the company grew to more respectable proportions, as stragglers joined it on the way, until now, as they entered the Foothills, they felt little fear of the red-skinned Ishmaelites of whom they had heard so many frightful tales.
Nearly a week before our story opens, a sad accident occurred. A rifle, suspended by leather strings in Mitchell's wagon, by some means got discharged, its contents lodging in Mrs. Mitchell's breast.
Since then she had been hovering between life and death. To continue their journey would be her certain death, and the kind-hearted emigrants would not abandon their leader in his distress, though each day of delay increased their danger of being overtaken by winter in the mountains. Thus for nearly a week they waited and watched. Slowly Mrs. Mitchell sunk, and now, on this day, her spirit took its departure. The daughter, Lottie, was the first to notice the presence of death, and it was her heart-broken wail that saluted the ears of the two young men, Burr Wythe and Paley Duplin.
"It is all over!" muttered Duplin, drawing a long breath.
"Poor girl—'twill just about kill her; she worshipped her mother," added Burr, his blue eyes winking rapidly.
"It is sad—but then, since it must be so, it's well that all is over. A long road lies before us, and the mountains must be crossed before the snow falls. The lives of all depend upon it."
"Mitchell knows that. He will not delay us any longer than is absolutely necessary. But come—there is work to do. We can help them."