Over the Rocky Mountains: Wandering Will in the Land of the Redskin, Ballantyne [good books to read for teens TXT] 📗

the claws and teeth of which were claimed by Will, as he had drawn first blood. After that a deer chanced to come within range of the trapper, who brought it down, cut off the best parts of the meat, and, kindling a fire on the spot, sat down with his companion to a fat venison steak and a pipe.

“This sort o’ life is what I calls happiness,” said Big Ben, puffing out a cloud, through the hazy curls of which he gazed at a sunny landscape of unrivalled beauty.

“So it is,” assented Will Osten, with enthusiasm.

“An’ yet,” pursued Big Ben, thoughtfully, “when I come to think on’t, this sort o’ life would be no happiness to an old man, or to a weak one.”

“No, nor to a woman,” added Will.

“Not so sure o’ that,” said the trapper; “I’ve know’d Injun women as was about as good hunters as their husbands, an’ enjoyed it quite as much.”

“That may be so, Ben, but women of the civilised world would scarcely think this a happy sort of life.”

“P’raps not,” returned Ben. “Happiness is a queer thing, after all. I’ve often thought that it’s neither huntin’ nor farmin’, nor fair weather nor foul, that brings it about in the heart o’ man or woman, but that it comes nat’ral to man, woman, and child, when they does what is best suited to their minds and bodies, and when they does it in the right way.”

“Which is very much like saying,” observed Will, “that happiness consists in obeying the laws of God, both natural and revealed.”

“Just so,” assented the trapper, after a few moments’ consideration, “though I never quite thought of it in that light before.”

Thus they conversed—or, rather, in somewhat similar strains they chatted, for they did not pursue any subject long, but allowed their minds to rove where fancy led—until evening began to close; then they carried their meat into camp and closed the day with a sumptuous feast of fish, flesh, and fowl, round a blazing fire, while the stream, which formed their beverage, warbled sweet music in their ears.

This, reader, is a specimen of one of their quiet days, and many such they had; but as these days of peace bore no proportion to the days of toil and trouble, we must beg you to be content with the account of this one as a fair sample of the rest, while we carry you over the Rocky Mountains and bear you down their western slopes towards the Pacific Ocean.

The mountains being crossed, the future course of our travellers was down hill, but in some respects it was more toilsome than their uphill journey had been. The scenery changed considerably in respect of the character of its vegetation, and was even more rugged than heretofore, while the trees were larger and the underwood more dense. Many a narrow escape had Will and his friends during the weeks that followed, and many a wild adventure, all of which, however, terminated happily—except one, to which we now request attention.

They had reached the Fraser River—that celebrated stream of British Columbia which waters a country that was destined in after years to become one of the great gold-mining regions of the world. On the afternoon of which we write, the party rode with difficulty down the rugged banks of the river, which, roaring through a narrow valley, had overflowed its banks, so that the trail was completely covered, the horses being frequently up to the girths in water. In the course of the day they came to a place where the trail passed along the face of a lofty cliff of crumbling slate. The path was only just wide enough for the horses to pass. On the right rose a perpendicular precipice. On the left, a few yards below, the swollen waters of the Fraser roared and boiled down their rocky bed with tremendous velocity. On turning a projection they found the track barred by a huge rock which had recently slipped down the mountain side. As it was impossible to pass the obstacle either above or below, there was nothing for it but to cut down trees, use them as levers, and dislodge the mass. It was discovered, when they dismounted to undertake this task, that Larry O’Hale was amissing. Will Osten had just uttered an exclamation of surprise, and the others had not had time to reply to the question, “Hallo! what’s become of Larry?” when that worthy’s voice was heard shouting in the distance, and his horse’s hoofs were heard clattering along the narrow track as he approached at full gallop.

“Hooroo! howld on, doctor; hi’ Bunco an’ Ben, look here. Goold, avic, goold, I’ve got it at long last, sure enough!”

“You’ve got rid of your senses at last,” said Will, as his comrade almost rode him down. “Have a care, man! What makes you ride at such a pace?”

“Goold! goold! goold!” cried the excited Irishman, plucking a little bag from his breast, leaping off his horse, and pouring the contents—a mass of glittering lumps and particles—on a flat stone. “Didn’t I tell ye I was born to make my fortin’ out o’ goold? There’s plenty more where that comed from. Come back an’ I’ll show ’ee the place!”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Larry,” said Will, examining the so-called gold, “but I have seen this stuff before, and I believe it to be a substance which is not worth its weight in brass. Many poor fellows have been deceived by it before now.”

Larry’s face elongated very much at this. “What say you, Ben?” he inquired.

“I fear me that it an’t worth picking up,” replied the trapper, fingering the shining particles. “Leastwise I once collected a bag o’ the same an’ showed it to a man in the settlements who got the credit o’ bein’ a knowin’ fellow in regard to metals. He told me it was somethin’ that I don’t remember the name of, but worth nothing, so I heaved it away.”

Thus doubly assured, Larry sighed deeply as he collected the shining metal into the bag, and stood eyeing it disconsolately. At this point Bunco chuckled.

“Worse luck to it,” cried Larry, starting and tossing the bag violently into the stream, where it sank and vanished for ever. Little did any of the party imagine, at that time, that they had actually cast away some hundred pounds worth of pure gold, yet such was actually the case!

As it left Larry’s hand, the bag touched the nose of his horse, which shied, slipped over the bank, fell into the river, and was swept away. Instantly they all clapped their shoulders to the big stone, and pushed with such good-will that it slipped and went crashing into the stream, while the party went off at full speed after the horse. The poor animal was found at last stranded amid a mass of driftwood, with its saddle and baggage gone, but beyond this and the fright, no harm was done.

“Misfortin’s niver come single. ’Tis always the way. Howsiver, niver say die; better luck nixt time; ye’ll make yer fortin’ yit, av ye only parsevair an’ kape up yer heart, ould boy.” Thus soliloquising, the unfortunate man remounted his wet and bare-backed steed, and rode away.

Time and tide are usually understood to wait for no man; we therefore decline to wait either for time or tide, but, sweeping onward in advance of both, convey our readers at once to the sea coast near Vancouver’s Island, where our adventurers arrived after an unusual share of toil and trouble, and found a small craft about to sail for California—took passage in her, and, in due time, arrived at San Francisco. The gold-fever had just set in there. The whole town was in an uproar of confusion. Excitable men had given up their ordinary work, or shut their shops, and gone off to the diggings. Ships were lying idle in the bay, having been deserted by their crews, who had gone to the same point of attraction, and new arrivals were constantly swelling the tide of gold-seekers. Here Will Osten found his father’s agent—a staid old gentleman of Spanish extraction, who, being infirm as well as old, was fever-proof. Being somewhat taciturn, however, and rendered irritable by the upheavings of social life which were going on around him, he only vouchsafed the information that the estate which belonged to the late Mr Osten was near the goldfields; that it was not a rich one by any means, and that his advice to Will was to go and see it for himself. Accepting the advice, our hero expended the greater part of his remaining cash in purchasing provisions, etcetera, for the journey to the Sacramento River. By steamer they accomplished the first part of it, and on horseback progressed north-eastward until they drew near to the mighty mountain range named the Sierra Nevada.

On the way they had more than enough of company, for men of every clime and of all ages, between sixteen and fifty, were travelling on every description of horse and mule in the same direction. From most of these, however, they parted on reaching the entrance to the narrow valley in which the estate was said to lie.

“Is it far up the valley?” asked Will Osten of the landlord of the last ranche, or inn (a small hovel) in which they had passed the night.

“Not far,” replied the innkeeper, a shrewd intelligent Yankee, with a touch of the nasal tone for which the race is noted; “guess it’s about three leagues off.”

“A wild gloomy sort o’ place, no doubt?” asked Larry.

“Rayther. It’ll stand tamin’ a bit. There’s nobody lives in the whole valley ’xcept a band o’ miners who have been prospectin’ all over it an’ locatin’ themselves in the house without leave.”

“Locatin’, is it?” exclaimed Larry, “faix, it’s vacatin’ it they’ll be, widout so much as ‘by yer lave,’ this night.”

“Have they found much gold, do you know?” asked Will Osten.

“Believe not,” replied the innkeeper. “It’s not a likely place—though there may be some, for gold has been found below this, as you would see, I s’pose, when you passed the diggers on Cocktail Creek.”

Bidding the host good-bye, our hero and his friends rode off to take possession of the estate. They were well armed, for, in these days, might, not right, was the law of the land.

It was evening before they reached the head of the valley where stood the house or wooden cottage which had been the abode of Will’s eccentric old relative. The scenery was savage and forbidding in the extreme. Lofty mountains rose on every side, and only a small portion of the land in the neighbourhood of the dwelling had been brought under cultivation. The house itself was a low long-shaped building, and stood on the banks of a stream which gushed and tumbled furiously along its rocky bed, as if in hot haste to escape from the dark mountain gorges which gave it birth. A hut near by was the residence of an old native who had been the owner’s only servant, and a few cattle grazing in the meadow behind the house were tended by him with as much solicitude as though his late master had been still alive. The only cheering point in the scene was a gleam of ruddy light which shot from a window of the house and lost itself in the deepening gloom of evening.

“A most lugubrious spot,” said Will, surveying it sadly as he rode forward.

“Faix, I’d recommend ye to sell it to the miners for whativer it’ll fetch,” said Larry, in a disappointed tone.

“They’re a jovial set of squatters, whatever else they may be,” said Big Ben, as an uproarious chorus issued from the house. “Hallo! Bunco, what d’ye hear, lad?”

Bunco’s visage displayed at that moment a compound expression of surprise and deep attention. Again the chorus swelled out and came down on the breeze, inducing Bunco to mutter a few words