“Praps that is the best way,” said the modern patriarch, “ef a man has got patience. Looker here, stranger, ain’t you a terrible fellow among women?”
I confessed my want of experience.
“Well, you will be when your time comes. I allowed from seeing you handle that thar hoss, that you had got your hand in on women,—they is the wust devils to tame I ever seed.”
I had made my arrangements to start about the first of September, with the Sacramento mail-riders, a brace of jolly dogs, brave fellows, who,
with their scalps as well secured as might be, ran the gauntlet every alternate month to Salt Lake. That was long before the days of coaches. No pony express was dreamed of. A trip across the plains, without escort or caravan, had still some elements of heroism, if it have not to-day.
Meantime one of my ardent partners from San Francisco arrived to take my place at the mine.
“I don’t think that quartz looks quite so goldy as it did at a distance,” said he.
“Well,” said old Gerrian, who had come over to take possession of his share of our bargain; “it is whiter ’n it’s yaller. It does look about as bad off fur slugs as the cellar of an Indiana bank. But I b’leeve in luck, and luck is olluz comin’ at me with its head down and both eyes shet. I’m goan to shove bullocks down this here hole, or the price of bullocks, until I make it pay.”
And it is a fact, that by the aid of Gerrian’s capital, and improved modern machinery, after a long struggle, the Fulano mine has begun to yield a sober, quiet profit.
My wooing of the black occupied all my leisure during my last few days. Every day, a circle of Pikes collected to see my management. I hope they took lessons in the law of kindness. The horse was well known throughout the country, and my bargain with Gerrian was noised abroad.