Old Misery/Chapter 4

HEY had climbed high above the valley of the Sacramento and its joyous freshness, but nowhere could there be a richer green than here among the endless growths interspersed with heavily grassed hollows. Bird life was abundant. The jays, with harsh and challenging cries, were feeding on seeds from the big pine cones. Close by, only more sedately, the mountain-chickadee and the demure titmouse hunted for food. The deep blue overhead would remain unspotted by clouds for months.

Gilbert's feeling of aloofness from the world was accumulative; and now as he approached the entrance of a hidden valley without suspecting its existence he lost perspective, and San Francisco was as far away as was Vermont. There was an unreality blurring all that had happened down in the lowlands.

With a brisk step Old Misery led the way through a stately stand of pines, so clean of ground-growth that wagons could pass without hindrance, and halted so that his companion might look upon the hidden camp. The valley extended nearly east and west between ridges covered with ancient trees. Bill Williams hurried to an overhanging shelf of rock and lay down on abed of dry grass. The two men remained a minute and in silence surveyed what to the younger was a strange scene.

A young bear, of the size of one in Nevada City, strained at his slender chain in an attempt to assail Mr. Williams. Old Misery advanced and released the prisoner, who gallantly attacked the veteran. Bill was in no mood to be bothered, and with one sweep of his huge paw he shot the six hundred pounds of merry-maker out from under the ledge. A smaller bear, a female, ran to Old Misery and stood up like a child to be petted. Three panther kittens and three wolf pups occupied two cages. To accommodate the human members of the little community were several log cabins strung along the southern slope. Straight ahead reared a blue-white peak of the Sierra.

Accompanied by the young bear, Old Misery led the way to the first cabin and directed:

“Heave your fixings inside and come along and git 'quainted. I always sleep in the open till the rains git too cold. So you'll have the roof to yourself.”

Gilbert was returning from the cabin when the girl Maria ran from the second cabin, gladly crying:

“Senor Comandante, it is ver' good for the heart to see your kind face again! Luck in your face, Senor Gilbert! Is it not? Sí.”

“No thanks to you he ain't straightening out a coil of rope, you young streak of scarlet,” growled the mountain man, yet content to have her cling to his fringed arm and dance sidewise so she could peer up into his face. “You young female hellion, what you mean by sneaking off and raising hob at the bay for? Mebbe your granddad had good reason for larruping you.”

She had kept up her dancing step and turned her laughing face toward Gilbert. She seemed to find much amusement in the young man's grave countenance. And, in truth, this meeting with the girl was shattering the unreality of the world down the big valley and was bringing San Francisco very close. He gave her a civil greeting, but his voice sounded strained. She laughed delightedly and jumped up and pecked at Old Misery's bearded face and then ran into the second cabin.

“She's a caution,” mumbled the mountain man. “But don't mean no more harm then some wild thing that scratches and draws blood in play. Here comes her grandpap.”

From the dark doorway came a little old Mexican of withered visage, his stunted stature made grotesque by the enormous black hat. Gilbert could only think of the gnomes who beguiled poor Rip into carrying the liquor up the mountainside. The old man wore a bright-colored serape over his left shoulder and had much silver up and down the outside of the slashed trousers. In a red sash was a silver-handled bowie-knife.

He peered up at them from under the brim of his big hat, bowed low and in Spanish said:

“Senor Comandante, my poor eyes already feel better now you are back home. I have returned thanks to Our Lady for the return of my wretched granddaughter. You bring a stranger with you. I can not see him well, but I think he is a young man.”

“He is a young man, Don Miguel, and not very wise. He is in trouble for helping Joaquin Murieta escape from a gambling-place in San Francisco.”

“Ah-h! He must be a very good young man, Senor Comandante. Surely he is a very wise young man to have helped the Great One!”

And old Miguel clawed Gilbert's arm with what was meant to be a caress.

“Alas, that the good God should have denied me such a grandson and sent me a wayward girl!”

To Gilbert the mountain man explained:

“Don Miguel. He won't talk to any one but me and this wildcat hanging on my arm. He's 'most blind. Wicked old dog in his day. Rode with men long since shot or hung. Come up here to hide, like an old wolf lapping his wounds, two years ago. He's kind to the animals and never quits this holler.”

To Miguel he advised: “You better go inside as the sun will hurt your eyes.”

“The sun!” mumbled the old man, turning back to the cabin. “No friend of mine. We rode by night when the world was black, or when the Fair Lady held a candle in the sky. But the sun—it was made for fools. Give the moon for lovers and those who had need to ride long and hard.”

He was still muttering as he disappeared through the dark doorway.

As Old Misery turned away Gilbert asked: “Who has the third cabin?”

“Two derned fools,” replied Old Misery. “If it wa'n't for that they'd be good fellers. Out prospecting some'ers. Think of men grubbing among rocks and digging in dirt, their eyes looking at the ground, when all they have to do is to take it easy and watch the sky and them mountains yonder!”

And he turned and stared like a mystic at the rocky crest of the mighty Sierra.

After a pause he continued:

“My animals have more sense. Birds have more sense. They don't waller in rivers and sluice mud into the Yuba till they smother the bars lower down, like Swiss Bar was wiped out above Marysville. Look at that fool girl bear. She gits more fun out of life than Weymouth Mass and Sailor Ben does. See Bill Williams taking his rest like a sensible man. Then think of them heyoka men we left scrambling and sweating to stake out claims on that bench down below. Them young wolves are tame as dog-pups because they have 'nough to eat. Same with the panther kittens. 'Nough in the world for all of us to eat, but some cusses want to git more'n they ever can eat. That means other folks must go hungry. That brings on fighting, and then hell's to pay. How's 'Merica, Maria?”

“Ver' sad, caballero,” she gravely replied. “He looks at the mountains, or down toward the Sacramento all the time. I stand before his eyes. He does not see me.”

“S'pose we have a powwow with him,” mumbled Old Misery, turning in behind the third cabin and climbing the slope.

For Gilbert's benefit he explained:

“Some Injuns caught him in a trap. They was going to eat him. I bought the old cuss with some wolf-skins. They're keen to have wolf-skin leggings as it's good medicine. I'm beginning to think he don't thank me for keeping him out of an Injun stomach. He's one of the things that never takes to civ'lization. Wants to wander and see things and places!”

He led the way into a natural little clearing up the slope and halted before a large bald eagle fastened by a stout length of rawhide around one leg. The prisoner ceased striking his strong, hooked bill at the tether as the three came up, and turned his inscrutable eyes toward the golden west. His head and tail were white, the rest of his plumage being a brownish-black. As Gilbert looked at the proud captive he could only think of Old Misery with his white beard and frosty eyes. The mountain man imitated an elk's whistle. The bird remained immovable.

Old Misery plucked at his beard and mused:

“You're worth fifty dollars, delivered in Nevada City, partner. But that's a hell of a price to take for selling the only bird that ever got his picter on the 'Merican dollar! Lawd! What a come-down! Flying round at the top of the sky, then to be catched by Injuns and be hitched by one leg down in this hole! Much like I'd feel if they took me back East and let on I must always stay in one place! Maria, you fetch a heavy blanket—sudden.”

The girl bounded down the slope and vanished in the growth. Soon she was reappearing and waving a thick blanket. Old Misery took the blanket and threw it over the eagle and closed in, holding the bird despite its frantic endeavors and calling for Gilbert to take the knife from his belt and cut the cord.

Gilbert drew the long knife from the mountain man's worn belt and started to sever the rawhide a foot from the leg.

“Don't leave any on the leg,” bellowed Old Misery. “Cut the knot! Hi! You'll chop his leg off! Stand back. You streak of scarlet, show your blood with that knife.”

The girl seized the knife from Gilbert's inexperienced hand and knicked [sic] the knot with lightning precision. Old Misery leaped back, snatching the blanket away. For a moment the bird appeared to be confused; then he shot like a bolt into the air and circled higher and higher.

“Go it, you 'Merican-dollar eagle!” hoarsely bawled the mountain man. “Climb to Kingdom Come to make sure you ain't asleep and having a Hawk dream. There he goes!”

And the eagle ceased his spirals and swept away toward the gold and emerald valley of the Sacramento.

“Senor Comandante gives wings to feefty dollars,” said Maria to Gilbert.

Old Misery gazed at her in silence for a moment, then exploded:

“And you'd sell a man for that price.”

She laughed lazily and glanced at Gilbert through half-closed eyes and danced ahead of them down the slope and to the cabins.

“If she liked the man, no matter how low-down he was, she wouldn't sell him for all the gold in Californy,” amended the mountain man as he and Gilbert more sedately descended to the valley.

Each cabin cooked and ate by itself. Old Misery brought deer meat from a cool little pocket under a ledge, whence issued a tiny stream of ice-cold water. Gilbert promptly offered to prepare the food.

The mountain man hesitated and explained: “I ain't fond of squaw work, but I'm mortal hungry after climbing 'way up here.”

“I'm not entirely a fool,” Gilbert earnestly assured him. “Really I can cook after a fashion. If that's an oven I think I can make some fair bread.”

He pointed to a Dutch oven.

“Saleratus powder's in the cabin. Try your luck,” consented Old Misery. “I'll travel a bit and git the kinks out my legs.”

He took his rifle and wandered into the timber back of the cabin.

A batch of bread was soon mixed and set to baking. When it was nearly done the steaks were skilfully broiled and coffee prepared.

Then the cook raised his voice in a loud: “Hoo-ooh!”

Bill Williams woke up and ambled forward, sniffing the air. Old Misery stepped into view and yelled for the bear to lie down. His sudden appearance suggested to Gilbert he had been close by all the time.

“Best bread I ever sunk a tooth into 'cept what I bake myself,” he mumbled as he filled his mouth. “Maria has tried to cook for me, but she's too fond of mixing in red peppers. Wolves won't eat a Mexican, his hide's so peppery from eating bitey stuff.”

After he had demonstrated what one meant by referring to a “mountain man's” appetite he fed the bear, gave him a chew of tobacco for dessert and lighted his pipe. Gilbert went to the cabin and procured a book from his bag, returned to the fire and replenished it and endeavored to read. But his mind was brooding over his troubles, and he closed the book with a sigh.

“S'pose those Coloma men are still waiting for you to show up,” Old Misery suddenly remarked.

“It's hell to think of it, and I can't think of anything else,” groaned Gilbert. “I must get to mining. I must find enough gold to make up what I lost.”

“Some greenhorns do strike it rich,” reflected the mountain man. “But mighty few. In the old days 'forty-eight and 'forty-nine, when they dug gold from the cracks in the rocks, and butcher-knives went up to thirty dollars apiece, and I was selling teeny iron tacks for their weight in gold, 'most every one out here was a greenhorn at mining. But they ain't digging it out of cracks in a ledge now; and they're building lodges of brick and stone and don't need tacks to fasten cloth over a frame of poles.

“If you kept busy prospecting for yourself for the next year you might make four hundred dollars. That is, if you was fair-to-middling lucky for a greenhorn. But first you'd have to find a claim that would pay eight or ten dollars a day. You'd work it out in two or three weeks. Then you'd drift to find another. You'd have to buy a mule. You'd always be buying grub. You'd use up lots of time hunting for pay-diggings that no one was on, and you'd have to be within reach of a store. Mebbe four hundred is putting it too high.”

“Good heavens! If I cleared only that much it would take me four or five years to make up what I—stole,” cried Gilbert, nonplused at such dire prophecy.

“To make up what you got to fooling with. You didn't mean to steal it,” corrected the mountain man. “You can stay along with me, and if we suit one t'other I'll give you five dollars a day. Mebbe I can find a likely-looking bit of diggings where you can make it faster for a couple of weeks.”

“But if you found it, it would be yours to work,” said Gilbert.

“Why should I break my old back digging in the ground? I ain't no prairie dog. Or git rheumatiz by standing up to my middle in icy water? What would I do with it if I dug it? I ain't 'going back home in the spring,' as Weymouth Mass and Pretty Soon Jim and a lot more keep yepping about. I don't want a fine house. I don't like houses. They hamper a man.I like to wander and see what's on t'other side the mountain. And there's always some new mountain to coax me along. Almighty must 'a' wanted folks to prowl round 'em, else why did He make 'em?

“They never was built up just for b'ars and eagles to look at. And how can a man wander if he's tied to a house; or carries along a mule-load of gold? 'Merica, my eagle, was hitched by a stout rawhide. Men are hitched to a spot by what they own. Thank God I ain't hitched. I'm free of foot. I have to pack lead 'n' powder and some terbaccer. When I first got out here, when I was a younker, the Injuns showed me how to dress skins. So I git my clothes with my rifle. No one on earth owns a better country than I do, or has more to eat and more time to sleep.

“'Course you've got to save and scrimp and pay back what you lost gambling. Derned if that streak of scarlet didn't git you into a fine mess of trouble at the bay!”

“I can't blame her. I shouldn't have done it,” said Gilbert, bowing his head.

“That's what they say when they lose. But heads are high and feeling mighty smart and pert when they win. You know, I've seen old mountain men swear off drinking whisky when their heads was aching powerful bad. After the ache was gone they'd sort of change their idees and walk five hundred miles to find a bar and make the eagle scream. But if you're soured for good on gambling your losing that money won you a mighty big pot.”

“Stole it and gambled it away,” miserably reflected Gilbert.

“That way, if it makes you feel better. But if you'd broke the bank we'd heard mighty little 'bout stealing. What's that book?”

Gilbert listlessly replied:

“The Three Guardsmen. Written by a Frenchman.”

“Huh!” snorted the mountain man. “Won't pan out much. I've knowed lots of big mountain men who was French. They have mighty neat fighting ways with Injuns. But a cuss that'll spend time writing a lot of lies can't weigh much … What's it 'bout?”

Two hours later, his eyes smarting and his throat hoarse and sore, Gilbert insisted he could no longer pursue the adventures of the immortal D'Artagnan.

Old Misery, who had assiduously fed dry twigs to the fire to afford light, rubbed his head as if emerging from a deep sleep and exclaimed:

“For lord's sake! But ain't he a young hellion? And them three pards of his! Younker, the man who writ them lies wa'n't no common Frenchman. He must 'a' been an old mountain man in his day. Every squaw crazy over 'em! It ain't no book for Maria to read. Too free 'n' easy. But we'll finish it in a night or two if it bu'sts a gut.”

Morning came with sprightly assurance to the valley. When Gilbert turned out of the cabin it was to find Old Misery was gone. His blankets hung on the limb of a tree. The fire showed the mountain man had eaten his breakfast. Gilbert prepared his food and ate slowly, his eyes on the second cabin, and hoping the girl Maria would join him.

Old Miguel came to the door and sat on the sill-log, his hat pulled well forward to shield his eyes from the radiance poured down the valley from the sun balanced on the crest of the Sierra. Depressed and lonely, Gilbert slowly approached the huddled figure, thinking the girl might appear.

Miguel heard the cautious step, and his claw of a hand flew to his belt, and the heavy knife was poised over his head, and he was snarling:

“Halt! Who is?”

“Gilbert. The greenhorn,” hurriedly answered Gilbert.

The knife was thrust under the sash, and old Miguel was erect, worrying his eyes by removing his hat and bowing low.

“Mi compadre is welcome,” he slowly said in English. “Gran' caballero. My young brother. I salute him who helped the Great One.”

And with another flourish he sank back on the log and resumed his hat.

To be treated with such respect was most pleasing although it included the conviction he was hand in glove with Joaquin Murieta. Ambition contains many planes, and the Vermonter was well pleased for the time to be ranked as the friend of a bandit and the object of a broken-down outlaw's respect. So he did not disclaim any felonious intention in showing Murieta the hidden window. Instead he squatted before the Mexican and began asking questions.

Old Miguel answered as best he could, sometimes speaking in Spanish when his English failed. Gilbert did not ask for the girl, the one thing he wished to learn, but in time Miguel informed him she had gone away early in the morning with the mountain man. When would she be back? The good God knew. But who else? One knew when the last snow left the peaks of the Sierra Nevada, when the rains would come and the wild geese and ducks would return from the far north. But as to knowing what one inspired by the Satan would do—quien sabe?

About midday, however, and while Gilbert was broiling extra steaks on the chance Old Misery would be returning, the two came back. The girl ran to her cabin; the mountain man came to the fire and nodded approvingly to find dinner all but ready. He offered no explanation of his absence, and Gilbert was too wise to ask. The girl reappeared after they had eaten and fed the panther kittens and the wolf pups. Old Misery reserved the bears for his own attention. He had finished with his pets when his attention was attracted by Bill Williams pointing his nose down the valley and staring with all his little eyes.

The mountain man gave a sharp quick glance and was commanding Gilbert: “Into the woods behind your cabin. Don't show up 'less I call. If you're to hoof it the girl will show you the way.”

Then he whistled like an elk, and Maria suddenly emerged from her cabin. In a panic Gilbert ran into the pines.

Old Misery gave the girl a signal, and she moved with gliding step to the rear of her cabin and sat down. The mountain man then spoke to Bill Williams, and with the bear behind him hurriedly walked down the valley toward the grove that masked the entrance. As he advanced he caught the hubbub of voices.

He came to a halt and dropped his rifle in the hollow of his left arm. Several men broke through the timber. Then came some pack-animals. Old Misery swore in his beard and eyed them in deep disgust. They were the same men who had overtaken him in the ravine below. He turned toward the cabins and lifted a hand high above his head and almost at once was answered by a shrill call.

Relaxing, he turned back to face the newcomers. Phelps and the Georgia man, mounted, were in the lead. The horses tried to bolt on smelling the bear and the riders had to dismount to hold them.

The Georgia man wrathfully cried: “Take that damn bear back!”

“Keep your hoss-flesh back till we've had a powwow. Bill here is fond of hoss-flesh.”

“If he comes at my hoss I'll plug him,” warned the Georgia man.

“And I'll cut your throat for doing it!” roared the mountain man.

“Easy, Misery. No hard feelings. No harm meant,” spoke up Phelps, who was well acquainted with the mountain man's temper.

Over his shoulder he called out: “You fellows take your mules and our horses back to that patch of feed below the timber.” Then to the mountain man: “We've tracked you, Misery.”

“This holler's mine,” rumbled Old Misery. “I ain't honing for company.”

“It's your hollow, but when it comes to hunting gold, gold has the right of way,” Phelps amiably replied. “But I'll do the talking for the crowd. No need for them to come streaming in yet. We're still curious about that gold you was tossing round in Nevada City. It wa'n't scale gold from the Yuba ridges. It wa'n't smooth and round and worn, neither.”

“Well, powwow, then you folks can hunt for gold all you want to so long as you don't trouble my animals,” replied Old Misery. “And a blind squirrel can pack all the gold you find to Nevada City in one eye.”

“We'll keep the hosses and mules in the lower opening and make our camp there till we've staked claims. As to not finding gold we don't agree with you,” said Phelps with a laugh. “This place is your home. You fetched some likely-looking gold to Nevada City. It wa'n't river gold. I'm enough of a ledge man to know you've struck a rich lode. Take your double claim and don't begrudge us our share.”

“If I have any gold I found it. S'pose you find your share. This holler is only part of my home. Rest of it stretches the whole length of the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra, and laps over into the Coast Range. I know where you can shovel gold out by the cartload, but not here in Grass Holler. I know where there's loads of silver. Three years ago I was with miners over the ridge in Carson Valley. They went from this side to nose round for gold. And there's a mountain of silver that waits for 'em who likes it.”

Phelps continued to laugh, and replied:

“Nice wild-goose chase you'd send us on. Nice one you sent us on down below.”

“Told you you'd find color. If you panned any dirt you found it.”

“Well, that's so. Pretty strong color, too. But the bench once was an ancient river bed. Gold all worn and smooth. We're after that sharp-edged stuff you gave the Chinaman.”

“'Course you are,” agreed Old Misery. “Don't blame you a bit. And I'll give you a couple pounds of it if you'll stand against the cabin and let me heave knives at you as I did that long-tailed cuss. But I can't have Grass Holler overrun for nothing. You name four or five men to come in here and prospect. When they find what 'pears to be pay-dirt, or rich ledge, t'others can come in and locate, and I'll move on. I'll have Bill Williams keep to his hole under the overhanging ledge and the men must keep clear of him. T'other bears are only cubs. One tied up is six months and past and has a dangerous mouth, but he don't mean no more harm'n a kitten. T'other one ain't hardly got her teeth yet.”

“You talk reasonable,” admitted Phelps. “And you're either bluffing, or it's another wild-goose chase. I'll go back and talk with the boys.”

Old Misery walked back to his cabin and ordered Bill Williams under the ledge and fastened a stout chain to a hind leg. The bear did not like it and said as much.

“Now, Bill, be sensible,” pleaded the mountain man. “It's good medicine for you. It won't be for long.”

He called for Gilbert to show himself. Maria entered her cabin as the young man emerged from the pines.

“Only the same parcel of gold-hunters that chased us down below,” Old Misery told him. “Bigger nuisance then a band of hungry Injuns. They think I've got a gold mine up here. Them clothes you're wearing make you stand out like Lassen's Butte. We'll have to see if Maria can't fix over one of my new suits of buckskins.”

Phelps soon came up the valley alone and stared curiously at the cabins and animals. He announced that a committee of five would be named and the valley prospected on the morrow.

He recognized Gilbert and with a broad grin asked:

“Had any chance to use that magnet or telescope yet?”

“You know I threw all that truck away. I'm working for Old Misery. He says day-wages are better than hunting for gold.”

Phelps' brown face puckered thoughtfully as he slowly agreed:

“Much better. I happened to strike it rich down in Grass Valley. Pure accident. Most prospectors are like Weymouth Mass—always drifting, always hunting. Even if they find ounce-diggings they won't stick. Next place is bound to be better and richer. Always moving around and hunting for something better.”

“Weymouth is round here now,” Old Misery informed them. “Fetched Sailor Ben up to sober him off. If he can keep Ben sober he'll find a heap of gold. But it takes Ben so long to git over a spree that by the time he's ready to prove his luck he'll full-cocked to git drunk again. Weymouth says he won't try him after this season. Think of the medicine in that salt-water cuss just going to waste!”

“Weymouth up here?” mused Phelps, his eyes narrowing. “He's been out here three years, always worked hard, never helled around any, and he never made better than grub and tobacco. Now he has a notion there's gold close by this little valley.”

And he stared sharply at the mountain man's expressionless face.

“Knowing Weymouth as I do, and knowing the first thing he'd do on a New England farm would be to try a pan of dirt, I'd bet a full-grown grizzly that he's panned every bit of loose soil he can find in and round this holler,” was the prompt reply. “He was up here most of last season. Mebbe he struck it rich then. If he's a lucky cuss to foller you'll soon see him. Your five men can dog him round. No knowing when Ben's medicine may begin working.”

“He's damned unlucky,” growled Phelps, frowning. “Up here last season, eh? The boys will lose their appetite for this place when I tell them Weymouth has had the run of the place. What say to dropping into our camp to-night? Fetch young Ounce-Diggings here along. If Weymouth and the sailor show up, fetch them.”

Old Misery readily accepted the invitation, but warned that no liquor was to be given Sailor Ben.

As Phelps was turning back to rejoin his companions the mountain man inquired:

“Any talk from down country? Or did you keep too close to our heels to hear it?”

“Feller making for the Truckee River road said Murieta was raising hell again. Six dead men found where he'd left them on his way to San Joaquin Valley. Folks at the bay stirred up worse'n ever and offering more money for his head and Three-Finger Jack's crippled hand. The El Dorado alone offers a thousand for either of the pair. They hope to git the young Englishman that escaped from the hall with Murieta. They say he fetched in the guns for the band. Door-tender remembers him as he's the only one who didn't have ary arms when he entered the place

“Men are hunting for suspects up this way and down to Stockton and Mariposa. Fast as they find a man that answers the description he'll be taken to the bay and the door-tender will look him over. Folks at the bay now think he separated from Murieta after they went through the winder. People saw the Mexicans running up the street and swear he wasn't with them. Between you'n me he come north. If he was going Stockton or Mariposa way he'd kept along with the band. He's either up this way or laying low in Frisco. Others think it, too. They've finished with Sacramento and are combing Marysville by this time. But come down to camp and we'll have some fun.”

“I'll be there with my scalp-shirt on. Tell the boys meat's fifty cents a pound when their grub runs out. I won't be harsh with 'em.”

“Harsh, hell! If we stay around here long enough you'll make more than the whole of us will.”

“I done that when there was more folks at Selby's Bar then there was at Caldwell's store, now Nevada City,” was Old Misery's parting rejoinder.

The mountain man made the rounds of his camp, inspecting his pets, and then took Bill Williams for a stroll through the timber on the north slope. Gilbert, not being invited, remained sprawled out by the Dutch oven, knowing he should feel very guilty instead of enjoying the glory of the sunset.

Maria came with her smooth, gliding step, slim brown hands resting on her hips, her head tilted and her red lips smiling. She halted and stared down at him. He crawled to his feet and bowed, his face flushing as he suspected amusement in her slumbrous gaze.

“He has the gran' manner. Ver' like a beeg caballero. I salute you, Senor Gilbert.”

He gestured for her to be seated on the grass and remarked:

“You've lived here some time before going to San Francisco?”

She shrugged her shoulders and from her blouse produced a small cigar and lighted it with a coal from the smoldering fire. Gilbert averted his gaze that she might not detect his disapproval.

She puffed contentedly and answered:

“Maria stays here sometimes. But, Nombre de Dios! It is not leeving. Beel Williams leeves here.”

There was pathos in her hopeless voice. Only remembrance of the part she had played in his downfall restrained Gilbert from venturing on the dangerous ground of pity. Then she was all animation and laughing and softly clapping her hands and pointing to a pine-squirrel and a red-headed woodpecker engaged in a lively battle.

“El Bravo! Ver' brave caballero! He makes the robber run! ''Bueno! Senor Carpentero,'' I salute you!”

“The woodpecker drives the squirrel away. Why?” asked Gilbert, boyishly interested.

“Senor Carpentero drills a hole in the oak or pine beeg enough to hold the nut of the oak. The robber on four legs comes to steal. They fight! Is it not? All day one hides away, one comes to steal. Jus' like men. Down in the valley of the Sacramento, where there are many oaks, they hide and steal all the time.”

Her enjoyment of the woods warfare was that of a little child. Gilbert found it difficult to reconcile this simplicity with the cunning and sophistication she had displayed in seducing him to appropriate others' gold and gamble it away.

Interested in her description of the “carpenter's” way of storing nuts, Gilbert examined the tree. It was a yellow pine. Its thick bark resembled cork and was divided into smooth areas measuring some four inches by six. These surfaces appeared to be studded with wooden pegs. A closer examination revealed each “peg” to be an acorn, driven into a nicely calculated hole by the industrious bird.

“That's mighty smart! That's clever!” Gilbert admiringly exclaimed.

“Like a Yankee trick, si?" murmured the girl mischievously.

Sounds of the warfare being renewed in the growth back of old Miguel's cabin led Gilbert in that direction.

To his surprise the girl displayed agitation and seized his arm and insisted:

“No, no. He ver' queer old man. Ver' queeck not to like it. We will go back to the fire and talk.”

“Your grandfather doesn't want any one to walk in the pines behind his cabin?” inquired the puzzled youth.

“He is ver' queer old man. We will go back to the fire.”

He allowed himself to be led away; but remonstrated:

“But why not? This valley belongs to Old Misery. He hasn't said there is any part of it I'm not to visit.”

“It is ver' bad,” she simply replied. “Senor Misery would say ver' bad medicine! It is not good for you to walk too much alone, senor.”

“What about the miners, Miss? They'll be swarming through this part of the valley to-morrow.”

She was visibly disturbed and rapidly said something in Spanish which he did not understand.

Then in English she abruptly said:

“Good-by. To-morrow we will talk again. Is it not?”

And with her gliding step she returned to her cabin and entered.

“Good lord! What would the Walker girls think of her?” he muttered.

He was still meditating over her strange behavior and wondering why the patch of pines back of the second cabin should be forbidden him when his line of thought was broken by the female bear. She was fat and heavy but as yet did not possess a “dangerous mouth.” She insisted on romping and on being petted.

When Old Misery returned he found his protégé and the bear rolling on the grass and wrestling, with the tetherd [sic] bear frantically trying to break loose and join in the fun.

The mountain man grinned approvingly and remarked:

“The little lady takes to you. That's a p'int in your favor, younker. She's far safer for you to play with than some other little ladies.” And his gaze switched around toward old Miguel's cabin.

Ignoring the hint, Gilbert asked:

“Why isn't it all right for me to walk through the woods?”

“You've got two legs. Roads are open. Go where you want to, but don't git lost.”

“But Maria says I mustn't.” And he related how she had interrupted his quest for more samples of the carpenter bird's work behind Miguel's cabin.

Old Misery stroked his beard thoughtfully, then surprised Gilbert by saying:

“That young streak of scarlet has the right of it. I was forgitting. Don't wander behind that cabin till you git better 'quainted with the valley—and with Miguel. What's the name of the boss of the Vermont outfit you was to give the gold to in Coloma?”

“Elnathan Plumb. The letter was sent to him. What'll they be thinking? The letter that told of my coming took only twenty-five days by the way of the Isthmus. If they'd only written to Plumb to go to San Francisco and get the money instead of having me carry it to him, but they wouldn't chance his having died before the letter reached Coloma.”

“Yankees don't like to take chances,” growled Old Misery. “But they was right. Men move 'round mighty sudden out here. And drop out of sight. And, mebbe, the folks back home thought you'd be able to deliver the dust.”

Gilbert groaned.

The mountain man continued:

“But fretting 'n' fussing don't dress any hides. 'Stead of looking back and being sorry look ahead and see how the muss can be mended.”

“Mended!” And Gilbert laughed despairingly. “Even if I was worth five dollars a day to you, which I never could be, it would take me a year to make up what I lost.”

“Well, we'll see,” gravely replied the mountain man. “I've lived with Injuns so long that I don't mind waiting a bit. There's no end to the number of days hiding be low the eastern sky-line. Every twenty-four hours a new one comes streaming along. Of course it's different with a double-time feller like you. I'm plumb s'prised the Coloma man didn't git that letter afore it was sent.”

Dropping his sarcasm, he seriously added:

“I picked up some of the best medicines among the Injuns. I've got a mighty strong Crow medicine. It might work, but it's best for stealing hosses. I lived with 'em till my wife died. Then the lodge seemed sorter lone some. Mebbe a Chippewa medicine I got from old Flat Mouth, chief of the Pillager Band, would be stronger. I dunno. I like the Crows as a tribe. Still I don't let my likings fool me 'bout medicines. I hanker more for a good Chippewa medicine-song then I do for a Crow, Sioux, or Cheyenne. They're so damn human.”

And he hummed under his breath, “He-hi-hi-hi,” the meaningless exclamations used to fill out a Midi song.

Gilbert gazed at him in amazement, unable to decide whether the old man was crazy, or was making more fun of him. The mountain man was thoroughly in earnest, however, and plucked at his beard and frowned as he weighed some point.

Finally he muttered:

“Two nights ago I dreamed the clouds was choking the eastern sky. Old Flat Mouth could guess its meaning, but damned if I can. Last night I dreamed I was young again and singing the 'Four Bears' song. I'll have to burn some terbacker. If old Flat Mouth could talk to me a minute, or any man who's took the fourth degree in the Midewiwin, he'd guess my dreams. There are eight degrees, but a fourth-degree man oughter be strong 'nough.” And he cleared his throat and repeated, “Ho ho-ho-ho.”

“I can't see—” Gilbert began.

“Then keep shet. It ain't needed for you to see. Had your eyes open ever since you was born'd, ain't you? Ain't seen much yet, have you? Eyes didn't do you much good in Frisco, did they? You know you're in a bad mess. It's hurting you inside a heap and all the time to think how you lost that gold. But showing that cussed Joaquin the way to the winder is a worse business for you. He'd found it and got out without your help, but folks are blaming you.

“Now some one's got to snag you out of two bad messes. You're more helpless than that little bear gal there, trying to wake Bill Williams without gitting lambasted. If you know any white medicine that'll help you, go into the woods and raise a lodge. If you don't know any, then keep out the trail and let a red medicine have a chance to work.” And he turned on his heel and walked up into the pines.

Thoroughly miserable, Gilbert lay on his face on the grass and dropped asleep. He did not know the girl Maria sat by him, watching him and thinking primitive, fundamental thoughts. Night was blotting out the fresh spring colors in the lower valley when the girl glided back to her cabin in time to escape the sharp eyes of Old Misery. The mountain man was accompanied by two men, and it was the one with the rolling gait that aroused Gilbert from a home-dream by cursing in hoarse blue water terms. Gilbert threw some pine cones on the coals and glanced apprehensively at the newcomers. The one with the long beard had the stature of a giant.

The mountain man shortly told his companions:

“This is my new helper.”

He enlightened Gilbert by saying:

“This is Weymouth Mass and his medicine, Sailor Ben. Two fool miners. We'll eat and walk down to Phelps' camp. Younker, you're dog-tired and best stay here.”

And he nudged Gilbert's leg with the toe of his moccasin.

“Can't see your colors,” growled the sailor, dropping heavily on the grass. “Two much land. Every breeze is a squall over the weather bow. Come of quitting blue water.”

“Now, Ben! None of that,” rumbled Weymouth Mass. Then to Gilbert: “I'd think you'd go in for hunting gold. You look to be able-bodied. Somewhere in these old mountains is the mother-lode. The source of all gold! Thrown up by a volcano. Some one will find it some time. It might be a greenhorn. Probably will be, if”—and he paused to stare down at the figure of the sailor—“if some worthless creature that's supposed to be lucky stops his natural-born luck from leading him to it.”

“Avast! Heave short! Too much land,” complained Sailor Ben.

Weymouth seated himself and stirred up the coals and mildly inquired:

“What were you doing in the little brush shelter, Misery? I almost stepped on it.”

“What'n hell you want to come prowling round in the woods for?” snorted the mountain man wrathfully. “Had a notion you'd find gold hanging on the pines? Huh!” Aside to Gilbert he explained: “I raised a lodge and was working my medicine hard when the big lummox come crashing along and sp'iled everything. But this ain't eating.”

They took the hint and bestirred themselves in preparing the evening meal, Gilbert proving himself to be very capable. The big miner was eager to assist, but did little beyond getting in the way. Sailor Ben made no pretense at helping, frankly stating it would impair his stock of luck. He impressed Gilbert as being a sour, disgruntled sort of man. With the glow of the fire painting their faces they ate their supper. Old Misery threw a bit of food over his shoulder to propitiate the ghosts before tasting the meat and bread. Weymouth Mass between mouthfuls cast puzzled glances at Gilbert, trying to remember why the young man's face was familiar.

At last it came back to him, and, pounding a big fist on his knee, he roared:

“Glory be! That's it! The young man who wanted to shoot Bill Williams!”

“You've told it to the Humboldt Mountains, Weymouth,” grumbled the mountain man. “Bill Williams knows that was all a bit of fun. All the younker had was an Allen. You'll forgit all about it, Weymouth.”

The Massachusetts man was puzzled, but detected a warning in the words, and mumbled:

“Forget all about it. Of course.”

Sailor Ben came to his feet buoyantly when Old Misery announced it was time to be on their way to the miners' camp.

But Weymouth sternly warned:

“Now, Ben! None of that. I know the signs. You're still on deck. No carousing while on watch. I won't have it.”

“When you're in ballast and the weather's calm—” hoarsely began the sailor.

“Not a single snort!” warmly broke in Weymouth.

“Don't lost your ha'r, Weymouth. There ain't a drink in the whole outfit,” spoke up Old Misery.

Ben sank back on the grass, sighed dismally and decided:

“I'll take a few winks while waiting for a breeze.”

Gilbert already had taken the hint and announced his intention of going to bed.

Miner and mountain wanderer went down the valley together, the former carefully explaining how the sailor's secret hankering for rum was interfering with his luck.

“The gold's waiting to be found, and he can find it, Misery. Find the mother-lode! Think of it! Cliffs and solid walls of pure gold! But he can't get results from his luck so long's his mind is pickled in whisky. We didn't do any real hunting to-day. Just put in the time hustling him up and down the slopes to sweat the rum notions out of his thick head. In a few days he'll be ripe to work. Then—a mountain of pure gold!”

“Huh! When that happy day comes, Weymouth, gold won't be worth as much as a spruce lodge-pole in the Black Hills. And they grow tolerably thick there.”

Weymouth wound his beard around his arm and thoughtfully replied:

“We'll only cart away a part of the cliff or ledge at a time. We'll be very sly.”

“Sly like a drunken Teton. One thing's in your favor. Every one believes Ben is a liar, and you was never known to find any gold in all the time you've been out there. So if you wear ragged clothes and beg for grub—”

“You exaggerate most cruelly, Misery. And there's the camp-fire,” interrupted Weymouth.

The two received a boisterous welcome, and a leather bottle containing nearly a gallon of Sonora brandy was produced. Weymouth refused, saying the sailor might detect the aroma on his breath and be tempted. Old Misery drank generously and endorsed it with a ringing war-whoop. Then Phelps and the Georgia man, speaking for the party, began a sharp examination of Weymouth.

The Massachusetts man reclined at ease and puffed his pipe and stated his firm belief there was a great quantity of gold in that immediate vicinity; but his listeners exchanged gloomy glances and did not seem to be rejoicing. When he was pinned down to details of his search it soon became apparent he had depended entirely upon the sailor and that the latter's luck couldn't work so long as he was yearning for strong drink.

“But Ben always wants a drink,” cried the Georgia man. “Haven't you done any digging and panning?”

“A little. No color yet. But I don't depend on that. I'm depending on Ben. All in good time, after I've sweat, fried and boiled the rum-hankering out of him.”

“Don't you boys git down-hearted,” spoke up Old Misery. “Just tell 'em all you know about gold, Weymouth. Then they'll see you're a good man to listen to.”

Weymouth, pleased to have a fresh and willing audience, readily obliged, saying:

“Gold is a queer thing. Queerer than a woman. It's almost as old as woman, too. If you know the Good Book you'll remember that in the first chapter of Genesis it reads, “Male and female created He them.” And that a few verses farther on, in the next chapter, it says that there's gold in the land of Havilah, and that the gold there is good.”

“That's a camp down on the head of the Kern River!” exclaimed one of the men.

“Then it was named after the 'Havilah' in the Bible,” insisted Weymouth, but looking worried. “But the mother-lode can't be way down there. It must be up here.”

“Mebbe there's a ridge of gold that stretches from hereabouts 'way down there,” encouraged Old Misery.

The immensity of this possibility dazed Weymouth for a moment; then he resumed, speaking quite like a pedagogue:

“Old Job knew all about mining, too. He was a keen prospector, I imagine. He tells of 'laying up gold as dust,' and swears that the gold of Ophir was “as the stones of the brooks.” Nuggets, you see.”

“Hell! that's on the Feather up near Bidwell's Bar!” cried one of the audience.

“Never knew they'd mentioned Ophir in the Bible,” confessed the Georgia man. “Anyway, that old cuss was a placer-man, all right.”

“Placer-man first; then a quartz man,” firmly corrected Weymouth. “For you'll find where he says, 'Surely there is a vein for the silver and place for gold where they fine it.' His way of spelling refine. Proves they had stamp-mills.”

“If that ain't medicine that proves what I told you cusses about silver in Carson Valley then I never ate boiled dog!” loudly insisted Old Misery.

“Those old galoots knew the game backward,” conceded a shaggy man from Ohio.

Weymouth recovered his line of thought after a bit and went on:

“So gold's a queer thing. As queer and old as woman. And silver's almost as queer. Some two thousand years ago Abraham paid four hundred shekels of silver for a burying-place. Inside of one year Solomon collected six hundred and sixty-six talents in gold.”

“Cuss me if he didn't have Joaquin Murieta looking like a scorched pup!” exploded Old Misery. “That is, if a 'talent' was a heap big coin.”

“His one year's collection in our money would amount to a million and a half dollars,” explained Weymouth. “It made silver 'to be as the stones in Jerusalem.'”

“What I've always said,” broke in the Georgia man. “Silver's no good.”

“There were cords of gold in Babylon,” Weymouth in formed them, fearing to lose his audience. “One old Persian king got together seventeen million dollars' worth of gold.”

“Hold on,” growled Phelps. “Leave that for Sailor Ben to tell.”

“But it's true,” firmly insisted the Massachusetts man. “If you think that's a fair-to-middling lot of gold what do you say to a king in Egypt, who, says history, was worth eighty-six million dollars in gold?”

“I'd say hist'ry's a damned old liar!” roared the mountain man belligerently, the brandy making him argumentative. “No one can count as high. How can a man tell he has that much if he can't count it? Waugh!”

“If it is true,” growled the Georgia man, “then we're wasting our time up here. Those old-timers must 'a' got it all.”

“Let's get back to the beginning,” suggested Phelps. “Misery, we've named a committee of five men to prospect your valley. Now, Weymouth, all this Bible gold happened several years ago. We want to know about gold of to-day. Have you found any likely prospects?”

“Not yet. But I will. I'll find the mother-lode. Ben's luck will begin working after I get the rum-thoughts out of his head. Luck and gold are the queerest things in the world except a woman.”

Old Misery fished a small bag from his shirt and from it extracted a tiny bit of gold shaped like an Indian moccasin, and declared:

“That's the only bit of gold I ever took a shine to. Looks like a Crow moccasin. It's strong medicine; I'd rather have it than to dream of hawks. Needn't begin making wolf eyes. It come from Coarse Gold Gulch in Fresno. I told you I got gold in trade from all over. Of course there's a mother-lode of gold some'ers; but when you fellers find it gold will drop to about two-bits a thousand pounds. I'm feeling too wolfish round the shoulders to talk any more about picking gold out of mud. I'll wrassle, run, jump or fight any man in the crowd.”

The circle exchanged uneasy glances. There were but few of them who had not seen Old Misery in his moments of relaxation. Weymouth read the storm signals and announced:

“Time we went up the valley and slept it off, Misery.”

“But I feel playful,” insisted the mountain man. “Let's have a ring-wrassle. Me on the inside the circle trying to git out.”

Weymouth Mass leisurely got to his feet; then seized the unsuspecting mountain man by thigh and shoulder, raised him above his head and said to the gaping circle:

“Good night.”

“Damn you, Weymouth! Let me down,” roared the mountain man. “I've got my knife out! I'll cut your head off!”

“If you do, it'll simply prove what a fool rum can make of a man,” grunted Weymouth, still walking slowly into the timber.

“Set me on my feet,” shortly commanded Old Misery. “I'm harmless as Bill Williams. Don't seem to be any fun left in the world. Mebbe it's because those old cusses found gold.”