“Where are they got to now?” he gasped.
“Lord knows. It was a nigger as told me, just afore he died; he seen it all, an’ got one o’ their bullets into him. All the rest of the diggers have made tracks for 197 ’Frisco, to fetch out the volunteers. Never had a chance, so the nigger said. There was ’most three hundred o’ the reptiles, an’ not more’n twenty of our boys, an’ all of ’em took by surprise; shot down afore they could pick up their guns.”
Savage gave the frightened man a drink of spirits, then said resolutely:
“See an’ muster as many o’ the boys as ye can.—Here come some of ’em. Tell the others if they don’t wipe off this score, our lives won’t be worth a cent out here. My poor old mother’s over at the other store, and I’m off to fetch her back.”
Within half an hour fifty diggers had been collected, and, after a brief discussion, it was arranged that forty of them should accompany Savage on horseback while the others guarded the store, which, just now, was less likely to be attacked than the more distant one.
Riding at full gallop they accomplished the distance in a little over two hours; and even that was two hours too late. A roar of futile anger arose from the miners as they pulled up their horses. The store was in flames, and already half consumed; at the end, by the stables, was Savage’s van, minus the horses, and across the front-board of it lay the faithful black, shot dead, but still clutching a discharged rifle; while round about the doorway were the bodies of the manager, his two assistants, and old Mrs. Savage. Heedless of everything else, her son rushed to her side; then uttered a strange little cry of relief as she opened her eyes and sat up painfully. Blood was running from her shoulder.
“Thank God you are safe,” he said huskily. “The 198 rest doesn’t matter so much now.” He lifted her in his arms and carried her tenderly to the waggon. Meanwhile, some of his companions were examining the other bodies for some sign of life, which, unhappily, was not forthcoming; while the rest made fruitless efforts at extinguishing the fire.
The old lady’s story was soon told. She had not been in the store very long when a large party of Indians swooped down on the place with guns, tomahawks, and lighted torches. She heard a scream from the negro who had been dozing under the waggon-tilt, and she and the three shopmen rushed to the door, only to be shot down immediately by the crowd of shrieking wretches outside. She had received a ball in the shoulder, and, while the Indians were ransacking and firing the store, swooned away from fright and loss of blood.
A pair of horses were at once put into the shafts and the sorrowful party were about to return to Mariposa Creek, when a dozen horsemen galloped up; miners from the “claim” hard by, who, though they had paid no special heed to the firing, had soon been alarmed by the smoke of the burning house. Not one of them had seen anything of the Shoshonees, and all were anxious to help in a search for the culprits. But the short winter’s day was already at an end, and Savage preferred getting his mother home in safety to scouring a country that might teem with Indian ambuscades; he therefore urged the volunteers to make a dash for San Francisco, to interview the Governor (McDougall) and ask for troops and ammunition.
But the day’s misadventures were not yet ended. 199 Within a mile of Mariposa Creek the returning men could hear spasmodic bursts of musketry fire.