I walked over; and went in with the rest. On entering the large saloon, in which the shots had been fired, I saw two men lying stretched upon separate tables—each attended by a surgeon, who was examining his wounds.
I could see that both were badly—in fact mortally—wounded; and yet each was cursing the other with the most horrible imprecations I had ever heard!
One of the surgeons, addressing himself to the man upon whom he was attending, said:—
“Do not talk in that profane manner. You had better turn your thoughts to something else: you have not many hours to live.”
Neither this rebuke, nor the unpleasant information conveyed by it, seemed to produce the slightest effect on the wretch to whom it was addressed. Instead of becoming silent, he poured forth a fresh storm of blasphemy; and continued cursing all the time I remained within hearing.
I was told that the two men had quarrelled about a horse, that one of them first fired at the other, who fell instantly to the shot; and that the latter, while lying on the floor, had returned the fire of the assailant, sending three bullets into his body.
I heard afterwards that the shots had proved fatal to both. The man who had fired the first shot died that same night—the other surviving the sanguinary encounter only a few hours longer.
I had no desire to linger among the spectators of that tragical tableau; and I was but too glad to find a cue for escaping from it: in the tolling of the steam-boat bell, as it summoned the passengers aboard.
A few minutes after, and we were gliding down the San Joaquin—en route for the Golden City.
The San Joaquin is emphatically a crooked river. It appeared to me that in going down it, we passed Mount Diablo at least seven times. Vessels, that we had already met, could be soon after seen directly ahead of us, while those appearing astern would in a few minutes after, encounter us in the channel of the stream!