Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein;
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod,
A thousand horse—the wild, the free—
Like waves that follow o’er the sea—
Came thickly thundering on.”
We instantly seized the halters of our pack-mules, and not knowing whether to advance or retreat, waited the issue where we stood. They swept past us but a short distance ahead, heeding us as little as the Niagara the reeds that tremble on its bank. The very ground shook with the thunder of their hoofs. Their arching necks and flowing mane, their glossy flanks and sinewy bound made you begrudge them their freedom. You thought what a flight you might make on them into the mines. It seemed a pity that so much celerity and strength should be thrown away upon a stampede.
As we advanced the line of the horizon began to lift itself into irregular shapes, like a broken coast at sea. These emerging forms proved to be the broad tops of a belt of trees, which seemed not more than half a league distant, but which retreated as we advanced, like the bow which childhood pursues. It was a weary ride before we reached them, but the tedium of the way was relieved by several adventures among the wild geese, which hovered near our path in immense flocks. Mr. Stewart, who is an excellent shot, brought several to the ground: with these trophies we camped for the night. Some watered and tethered the animals, others gathered wood, and others ground the coffee and picked the geese. Having in our panniers a few onions and potatoes, with a piece of pork, we prepared for a stew. But our geese must have been the goslings of those that went into the ark, for neither fire nor steam could make an impression on their sinewy forms. We tried them with the puncture of our long knives; found them tough as ever, and then swung off the pot. There was enough, with bread and coffee, without the geese, and as we threw the legs and wings this way and that, an owl watched the flying fragments, as much as to say, it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good.
CHAPTER XX.
THE GRAVE OF A GOLD-HUNTER.—MOUNTAIN SPURS.—A COMPANY OF SONORANIANS.—A NIGHT ALARM.—FIRST VIEW OF THE MINES.—CHARACTER OF THE DEPOSITS.—A WOMAN AND HER PAN.—REMOVAL TO OTHER MINES.—WILD INDIANS AND THEIR WEAPONS.—COST OF PROVISIONS.—A PLUNGE INTO A GOLD RIVER.—MACHINES USED BY THE GOLD-DIGGERS.