“Which is very much like saying,” observed Will, “that happiness consists in obeying the laws of God, both natural and revealed.”
“Just so,” assented the trapper, after a few moments’ consideration, “though I never quite thought of it in that light before.”
Thus they conversed—or, rather, in somewhat similar strains they chatted, for they did not pursue any subject long, but allowed their minds to rove where fancy led—until evening began to close; then they carried their meat into camp and closed the day with a sumptuous feast of fish, flesh, and fowl, round a blazing fire, while the stream, which formed their beverage, warbled sweet music in their ears.
This, reader, is a specimen of one of their quiet days, and many such they had; but as these days of peace bore no proportion to the days of toil and trouble, we must beg you to be content with the account of this one as a fair sample of the rest, while we carry you over the Rocky Mountains and bear you down their western slopes towards the Pacific Ocean.
The mountains being crossed, the future course of our travellers was down hill, but in some respects it was more toilsome than their uphill journey had been. The scenery changed considerably in respect of the character of its vegetation, and was even more rugged than heretofore, while the trees were larger and the underwood more dense. Many a narrow escape had Will and his friends during the weeks that followed, and many a wild adventure, all of which, however, terminated happily—except one, to which we now request attention.
They had reached the Fraser River—that celebrated stream of British Columbia which waters a country that was destined in after years to become one of the great gold-mining regions of the world. On the afternoon of which we write, the party rode with difficulty down the rugged banks of the river, which, roaring through a narrow valley, had overflowed its banks, so that the trail was completely covered, the horses being frequently up to the girths in water. In the course of the day they came to a place where the trail passed along the face of a lofty cliff of crumbling slate. The path was only just wide enough for the horses to pass. On the right rose a perpendicular precipice. On the left, a few yards below, the swollen waters of the Fraser roared and boiled down their rocky bed with tremendous velocity. On turning a projection they found the track barred by a huge rock which had recently slipped down the mountain side. As it was impossible to pass the obstacle either above or below, there was nothing for it but to cut down trees, use them as levers, and dislodge the mass. It was discovered, when they dismounted to undertake this task, that Larry O’Hale was amissing. Will Osten had just uttered an exclamation of surprise, and the others had not had time to reply to the question, “Hallo! what’s become of Larry?” when that worthy’s voice was heard shouting in the distance, and his horse’s hoofs were heard clattering along the narrow track as he approached at full gallop.
“Hooroo! howld on, doctor; hi’ Bunco an’ Ben, look here. Goold, avic, goold, I’ve got it at long last, sure enough!”
“You’ve got rid of your senses at last,” said Will, as his comrade almost rode him down. “Have a care, man! What makes you ride at such a pace?”
“Goold! goold! goold!” cried the excited Irishman, plucking a little bag from his breast, leaping off his horse, and pouring the contents—a mass of glittering lumps and particles—on a flat stone. “Didn’t I tell ye I was born to make my fortin’ out o’ goold? There’s plenty more where that comed from. Come back an’ I’ll show ’ee the place!”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Larry,” said Will, examining the so-called gold, “but I have seen this stuff before, and I believe it to be a substance which is not worth its weight in brass. Many poor fellows have been deceived by it before now.”