CHAPTER XXI.
LUMP OF GOLD LOST.—INDIANS AT THEIR GAME OF ARROWS.—CAMP OF THE GOLD-HUNTERS.—A SONORANIAN GOLD-DIGGER.—SABBATH IN THE MINES.—THE GIANT WELCHMAN.—NATURE OF GOLD DEPOSITS.—AVERAGE PER MAN.—NEW DISCOVERIES.
Saturday, Oct. 7. I had come to the mines without a pick, but this morning fell in with a trader who had one for sale: his price was ten dollars in specie, or eighteen in gold dust. I gave him the specie; the pick weighed about four pounds, was of rude manufacture, and without a handle; but this appendage was readily supplied from the limb of an ash. Thus accoutred I strode down the ravine, not doubting but what I should, before night, strike upon some deposit which would fill my pockets. Passing groups who were engaged in digging into this bank and that, I fell in with a sailor, whom I recognized as one of the men who had been honorably discharged from the Savannah. He was groping about as if in quest of something he had lost. “What is the matter, Jones?” I inquired; he sprung to his feet, gave me his rough hand, and pointed to a cliff which overhung the glen. “There, on that crag,” said he, “I have been at work ever since the peep of day, and got out several bits of gold, and one good-sized lump: I put them in my tin cup, when, striking away again, my pick glanced, struck the cup, and knocked it, gold and all, half-way across this ravine; and I might as well hunt a clam in the Pacific as that gold, though it was a jewel of a piece—the biggest I have seen here.” So I laid down my pick, ascended the cliff, ascertained, as near as possible, the direction in which the cup flew, and commenced the search. Every bunch of leaves, every hole and gulley were examined, and the cup recovered, but the gold was not in it.
Fatigued, I threw myself into the shade of a scrub-oak, and went to sleep; but the gold of poor Jones glanced through my dreams. I saw, in that fantastic realm, a small birch-tree, a bubbling spring at its root, and in its fount a piece of gold. I seemed to know at the time it was only a dream; still the picture remained in my mind so clear, so distinct, that on awaking I identified at a glance the birch, and springing to its root found the little fount, and with a hoe fetched up the piece of gold!—the same that had been lost, for none other could answer so exactly to the description which had been given. It weighed about three ounces, but did not seem larger than the sparkling eye of the sailor as I placed it in his hand. They may laugh who will at dreams, but now and then some Sibyl leaf floats through them. I tried to dream again where gold might be found; saw plenty of birch-trees and fountains, but never discovered an ingot in either.
Monday, Oct. 9. On returning to our camping-tree this afternoon, I found three wild Indians quietly squatted in its shade. They had been attracted there by a red belt, which hung from one of the limbs. They could speak only their native dialect, not a word of which could I understand. We had to make ourselves intelligible by signs. They wanted to purchase the belt, and each laid down a piece of gold, which were worth in the aggregate some two hundred dollars. I took one of the pieces, and gave the Indian to whom it belonged the belt. They made signs for a piece of coin; I offered them an eagle, but it was not what they wanted,—a Spanish mill dollar, but they wanted something smaller,—a fifty-cent piece, and they signified it would do. Taking the coin they fastened it in the end of a stick, so as to expose nearly the entire circle, and set it up about forty yards distant. They then cast lots by a bone, which they threw into the air, for the order in which they should discharge their arrows. The one who had the first shot, drew his long sinewy bow and missed; the second, he missed; the third, and he missed,—though the arrow of each flew so near the coin it would have killed a deer at that distance. The second now shot first and grazed the coin; then the third, who broke his string and shot with the bow of the second, but missed; and now the first took his turn, and struck the coin, whirling it off at a great distance. The other two gave him the belt, which he tied around his head instead of his blanket, and away they started over the hills, full of wild life and glee, leaving the coin, as a thing of no importance, in the bushes where it had been whirled.
Tuesday, Oct. 10. My companions, who have been out on a gold-hunt for several hours, have just returned, bringing with them about an ounce of gold each. They are so thoroughly fatigued they prefer sleep to a dinner, connected with the trouble of preparing it. And there is no other way here; every man is obliged to be his own cook. We have our henchman, it is true, but he is in a ravine some four miles distant, in charge of our horses and mules. If he will keep them from straying, or being stolen by the wild Indians, we shall be content to wait on ourselves. Several of the persons at work in the ravine turned their horses adrift on their arrival, which they might safely do, for the poor things have not got strength enough to climb its steep sides. They subsist on the acorns which they gather, and a few tufts of grass as dry and scorched as the clover over which the flames of Sodom rolled. But what think men of the hunger or thirst of dumb animals, when the gold fever is throwing its circle of fire around the soul.
Wednesday, Oct. 11. It is near sunset, and the gold-diggers are returning from their labors, each one bearing on his head a brush-heap, with which he will kindle his evening fire. Their wild halloos, as they come in, fill the cliffs with their echoes. All are merry, whatever may have been the fortunes of the day with them. Not one among the whole can anticipate a more luxurious supper than a cake baked in the ashes, with a cup of coffee and a bit of jerked-beef, except in the case of a new-comer, who has brought with him a few pounds of buckwheat flour; he can have a pancake, that is if he has any thing with which to grease his pan, which is extremely doubtful. There is not a bottle of liquor in the ravine, and every one must, per force, turn in sober. Every streamlet preaches temperance, and the wind-stirred pine sings its soft eulogy on the charmed air.
Thursday, Oct. 12. I found near our camp this morning a boulder of trap and quartz which had evidently travelled some distance, as nothing of the kind existed in the ravine. I had no means of demolishing the mass, and could with my pick only dislodge a few of the quartz: these I found veined with gold. But it is the only specimen of this combination with which I have met. Where the fellow came from, I know not; but had he tumbled into New York or Philadelphia, instead of this cañada, the whole community would have been filled with prattling wonders. How much the marvellous depends on circumstances!
Friday, Oct. 13. I passed a few days since a Sonoranian at work against a steep bank of decomposed granite and clay, which was so firm that he could hardly make an impression upon it with a heavy sharp-pointed crowbar. “And what, my friend,” I inquired, “are you going to get out there?” to which he replied, “A pocket of gold, sir, as soon as I can reach it.” “And what makes you think,” I continued, “that you will find a deposit there?” to which he responded, “Do you see that blow-hole on the other side of the ravine, where the slate rock stands out so rough, with a savage mouth in the centre? Well, sir, that was the devil’s blow-hole, and he blowed the gold straight across the ravine into this bank, where I will find it, if I work long enough.” I thought him some half-crazy fellow, and passed on. He dug away all that day without reaching his pocket; but on the following day took out two pounds of gold, in small pieces, resembling in shape the seeds of the watermelon. As soon as this was known, four of the New York volunteers struck in each side of the Sonoranian, and dug him out; and the old man very quietly retired. The intruders dug away through the remainder of the day, but found no gold, and then quit the spot, concluding that the Sonoranian had got out the only pocket which existed there. The next morning, however, the Sonoranian renewed his attack on the bank, and with his sharp-pointed crowbar and pick, penetrated beyond the layer where the volunteers had knocked off. Before night he struck another pocket, and took out a pound and a half of gold of the same shape and size as the other. The volunteers were now roused, and returned to the spot, determined to dig down the whole bank; but one day of hard work, unrewarded by a single particle of gold, was enough. They quitted the bank in disgust. The old Sonoranian told me it contained no more pockets. His theory about the blow-hole is by no means confined to his own wild imagination; a man by the name of Black, who is one of the most successful gold-hunters in the ravine, is guided, in his researches, by the same seemingly absurd theory. It is possible that these blow-holes, as they are called, were the vents of volcanoes, performing the same functions as those found beneath the shaking cone of Etna.
Saturday, Oct. 14. A party of seven Americans are just in from the higher slopes of the Sierra, where they have been prospecting for gold. They penetrated to the snow, tearing up roots, overturning rocks and draining fountains, but discovering no gold. It is the foot range of the Sierra that contains the deposits; this has been cut into segments by rapid streams, rising higher up, and which have sunk their channels into deep gorges. The larger portion of the gold, subjected to the action of these torrents, has been swept out upon the plain, or buried deep in some nearer undulation, where it will remain undisturbed till the deposits nearer the surface have been exhausted. These deeper treasures, like the inhumed remains of a Herculaneum, will then be brought to light.