"The Adventures of a Rolling Stone" (continued 3)

His wife has probably watched long for his return; and may yet believe him guilty of that faithlessness—too common to men who have left their homes on a similar errand.

As our claim on the Yuba was well nigh exhausted, we dissolved partnership—each intending to proceed somewhere else on his own account. Young Johnson—who had been my companion across the plains—never before having been so long away from his parents, determined upon going home to them, and there remaining all the winter.

I had heard good accounts of the southern “placers,” which, being of the sort known as “dry diggings,” were best worked during the rainy season. Three or four men, from the same “bar” where we had been engaged, were about starting for the Mocolumne; and, after bidding James Johnson and my other mates a friendly farewell, I set out along with this party.

After reaching our destination, I joined partnership with two of my travelling companions; and, during the greater part of the winter, we worked upon Red Gulch—all three of us doing well.

Having exhausted our claim, my two partners left me both to return home to New York. Being thus left once more alone, I determined upon proceeding still farther south—to the Tuolumne river, there to try my fortune during the summer.

On my way to the Tuolumne, I fell in with a man named Richard Guinane, who had just come up from San Francisco City. He was also en route for the diggings at Tuolumne; and we arranged to travel together.

He was going to try his luck in gold seeking for the second time; and, finding him an agreeable companion, I proposed that we should become partners. My proposal was accepted—on the condition that we should stop awhile on the Stanislaus—a river of whose auriferous deposits my new partner had formed a very high opinion.

To this I made no objection; and, on reaching the Stanislaus, we pitched our tents upon its northern bank.

When I became a little acquainted with the past history of my companion, I might reasonably have been expected to object to the partnership. From his own account, he was born to ill-luck: and, such being the case, I could scarce hope that fortune would favour me—so long as I was in his company. Assuredly was Richard Guinane the victim of unfortunate circumstances. There are many such in the world, though few whom Fortune will not sometimes favour with her smiles—when they are deserved; and, ofttimes, when they are not.

Richard Guinane, according to his own account of himself, was one of these few. Circumstances seemed to have been always against him. Each benevolent, or praiseworthy action he might perform, appeared to the world as dictated by some base and selfish feeling! Whenever he attempted to confer a favour, the effort resulted in an injury, to those whom he meant to benefit. Whenever he tried to win a friend, it ended by his making an enemy!

His hopes of happiness had ever proved delusive—his anticipations of misery were always realised!

Pride, honour, in short, every noble feeling that man should possess, appeared to be his; and yet fate so controlled those sentiments, that each manifestation of them seemed, to the world, the reverse of the true motive that inspired it. Such was Guinane’s character—partly drawn from statements furnished by himself, and partly from facts that came under my own observation.

Certain circumstances of his life, which he made known to me, had produced an impression on my memory; but more especially those of which I was myself a spectator, and which brought his unhappy existence to an abrupt and tragical termination. The history of his life is too strange to be left unrecorded.

Richard Guinane was a native of New York State, where his father died before he was quite five years of age—leaving a wife and three children, of whom Dick was the eldest.

So early had Dick’s ill-fortune made its appearance, that before he had reached his fourteenth year, he had established the reputation of being the greatest thief and liar in his native village!

When once this character became attached to him, no church window could be broken, nor any other mischief occur, that was not attributed to Dick Guinane, although, according to his own account, he was really the best behaved boy in the place!

Near the residence of his mother, lived the widow of a merchant, who had left a small fortune to his only child, a daughter—the widow having the sole charge both of the fortune and the heiress—already a half grown girl.

With a charming voice, this young lady would answer to the name of Amanda Milne. She had seen Dick every day, since her earliest childhood; and she had formed a better opinion of him than of any other lad in the village. She was the only one in the place, except his own mother, who felt any regard for Dick Guinane. All his other neighbours looked upon him, as a living evidence of God’s amazing mercy!

Like most young ladies, Amanda was learning some accomplishments—to enable her to kill time in a genteel, and useless manner.

The first great work achieved by her fingers, and to her own entire satisfaction, was a silk purse—which it had not taken her quite two months to knit. This purse, on a favourable opportunity having offered itself, was presented to Dick.

Not long after, her mother wished to exhibit her needle-work to some friends—as a proof of the skill and industry of her daughter, who was requested to produce the purse.

Amanda knew that Dick was not liked by the inhabitants of the village; and that her own mother had an especially bad opinion of him. Moreover, the Guinane family was not so wealthy as the widow Milne; and in the opinion of many, there was no equality whatever between the young people representing each.

Though Amanda was well aware of all this, had she been alone with her mother, in all likelihood she would have told the truth; but, in the presence of strangers, she acted as most other girls would have done under similar circumstances. She said she had lost the purse; and had searched for it everywhere without finding it. About that time, Dick was seen in possession of a purse; and would give no account, of how he came by it. The two facts that Amanda Milne had lost a purse, and that Dick Guinane had one in his possession, soon became the subject of a comparison; and the acquaintances of both arrived at the conclusion: that Amanda, as she had stated, must have lost her purse, and that Dick must have stolen it!

Time passed on—each month producing some additional evidence to condemn poor Dick in the estimation of his acquaintances.

Mrs Guinane was a member of the Methodist Church, over which presided the Reverend Joseph Grievous. This gentleman was in the habit of holding frequent conversations with Mrs Guinane, on the growing sinfulness of her son. Notwithstanding her great reverence for her spiritual instructor, she could not perceive Dick’s terrible faults. Withal, the complaints made to her—of his killing cats, dogs, and geese, stealing fruit, and breaking windows—were so frequent, and apparently so true, that she used to take Dick to task, and in a kindly way read long maternal lectures to him.

Dick always avowed his innocence—even in the presence of Mr Grievous—and would use the best of arguments to prove himself as “not guilty.” This pretence of innocence, in the opinion of the Reverend Grievous, was a wickedness exceeding all his other misdeeds; and the sanctimonious gentleman suggested the remedy, of having Dick beaten into confession and repentance! To this course of treatment, however, Mrs Guinane firmly refused to give her consent.

One day, Dick had been to a neighbouring town; and when returning, had passed a house—to the gate of which the old and well known horse of the Reverend Grievous stood tied. Simply noticing the horse, and reflecting that his reverend owner must be inside the house, Dick continued on.

When near his mother’s house, he was overtaken by the horse, that bad come trotting along the road after him. The horse was without a rider, which proved that not being properly secured, he had got loose.

Dick caught the horse, mounted him, and commenced riding back—for the purpose of delivering him to the minister, for he could not permit, that so pious a person should have to walk home through the mud.

The road was bad—like most of the country roads in the United States—and Dick was already fatigued with a long walk. To take the horse to the house where his owner was visiting, would give him more than a mile to walk back; but no personal consideration could deter the lad from doing what he thought to be his duty.

On coming out of the house—where he had been visiting one of the members of his church—Mr Grievous was surprised not to find his horse; but the mystery was fully explained when, after proceeding a short distance, he saw Dick Guinane on the horse’s back.

Here was evidence welcome to Mr Grievous. Dick was at one of his old games—caught in the very act—riding another man’s horse—and that horse the property of his own minister!

The Reverend Joseph was rejoiced, as he had long been looking for an opportunity like this. He attributed all Dick’s misdeeds to the want of proper chastisement; and here was a good reason for administering it to him. Dick had no father to correct his faults; and, in the opinion of Mr Grievous, his mother was too lenient with the lad.

He had long promised, that if ever he caught Dick in any misdemeanour, he would himself administer a lesson that would not only benefit the boy, but the community in which he dwelt. He would be only fulfilling a duty, which his sacred office imposed upon him; and the present opportunity was too good a one to be lost.

Dick rode up to the minister, dismounted, and accosted him in a manner that should have been proof of innocence. Perhaps it would have been, by any other person; but to the Reverend Grievous, Dick’s confident deportment—inspired by the consciousness of having acted rightly—only aggravated the offence of which he was supposed to be guilty. His bold effrontery was but the bearing of a person long accustomed to crime. So reasoned Mr Grievous!

Without giving Dick time to finish his explanation, the minister seized him by the collar; and, with his riding whip, commenced administering to him a vigorous chastisement.

Dick was at the time over sixteen years of age; and was, moreover, a strong, active youth for his years.

So great was his respect, for all persons, whom he thought superior to himself, that for some time he bore the chastisement—unresistingly permitting the minister to proceed in the execution of his fancied duty.

Human nature could not stand such treatment long; and Dick’s temper at length giving way, he picked up a stone, hurled it at the head of the reverend horsewhipper—who, on receiving the blow, fell heavily to the earth.

He rose again; and in all probability would have returned to a more vigorous use of his horsewhip, had his victim been still within reach; but Dick had secured himself against farther punishment, by taking to his heels, and placing a wide distance between himself and his irate pastor.

Next day, Dick was brought before a magistrate, the Reverend Grievous, upon oath, being compelled to make a somewhat true statement of the affair. The justice had no other course than to discharge the prisoner, which he did with reluctance—expressing regret that the strict letter of the law did not allow him to deal with the offence in the manner it so justly merited!

His native village no longer afforded a peaceful home for Dick Guinane.

He was pointed at in the streets. Other boys of his age were forbidden by their parents to play with him; and the little school girls crossed the road in terror, as they saw him approach. In the opinion of the villagers, he had reached the climax of earthly iniquity.

He was sent to reside with an uncle—his mother’s brother—who lived in the city of New York. Before leaving his native place, he attempted to make a call on Amanda Milne; but was met at the door by her mother, who refused either to admit him within the house, or allow her daughter to see him.

Shortly after reaching his new home in the great city, he received a letter from his mother—enclosing a note from Amanda, the contents of which partly repaid him for all the injuries he had suffered.

During a residence of five years in New York, he was unsuccessful in everything he undertook; and, unfortunately, though from no fault of his own, lost the confidence of his uncle, as also his protection.

He returned to his native village, where he found that he was still remembered with disfavour.

He talked of love to Amanda Milne; but his suit was rejected. She admitted being much prepossessed in his favour, and that he had no rival in her affections; but what woman can brave the ridicule of all her acquaintances, and the anger of an only parent, by accepting a lover universally shunned and condemned?

Dick once more bade adieu to his native village; and after various vicissitudes in different cities of the United States, at length found his way to California. He had been one of the most fortunate miners on the Feather river; and had invested the money made there in a dry goods store in San Francisco.

Just one week after entering upon his new business, the city of San Francisco was burnt to the ground; and Dick’s dry goods store, including the contents, along with it.

With only one hundred dollars in his purse, he again started for the diggings; and it was while journeying thither that he and I came together, and entered into partnership as above related.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty One.

After breaking ground upon the Stanislaus, we toiled for three weeks without any success. Every one around us seemed to be doing well; but the several mining claims worked by Guinane and myself seemed to be the only places in the valley of the Stanislaus where no gold existed. Not a grain rewarded our labours.

“For your sake we had better part company,” said Guinane to me one evening, after we had toiled hard all day, and obtained nothing. “You will never have any luck, so long as you are my partner.”

I was inclined to think there was some truth in what my comrade said; but I did not like the idea of leaving a man, merely because he had been unfortunate.

“Your fate cannot long contend with mine,” I answered. “I am one of the most fortunate fellows in the world. If we continue to act in partnership, my good fortune will, in time, overcome the ill-luck that attends upon you. Let us keep together awhile longer.”

“Very well,” assented Guinane, “but I warn you that some one above—or below, may be—has a ‘down’ on me; and the good genius attending you will need to be very powerful to make things square. However, you lead the way, and I will follow.”

I did lead the way; and we went to Sonora, further south, where we entered upon a claim at a place called Dry Creek. Here we met with success, of which we could not reasonably complain.

We often used to walk into Sonora in the evening; and amuse ourselves, by witnessing the scenes occurring in the gambling houses, or having a dance with the bright-eyed Mexican señoritas.

One evening, while loitering about in one of the gambling houses, we saw a digger who was intoxicated, almost to the degree of drunkenness. He was moving about in half circles over the floor, keeping his feet under him with much difficulty, unknown to himself. Every now and then, he loudly declared his intention of going home, as if he thought such a proceeding on his part, was one in which all around him must be highly interested. Each time, before going, he would insist upon having another drink; and this continued, until he had swallowed several glasses of brandy, on the top of those that had already produced his intoxication. In paying for these drinks, he pulled out a bag of gold dust, which carried, judging from its size, about one hundred ounces; and a man behind the bar, weighed from it the few specks required in payment for the liquor.

There was something in the appearance of this miner that strangely interested me. I fancied that I had seen him before; but could not tell where. While I was endeavouring to identify him, he staggered out of the house into the street—leaving me in doubt, as to whether we had met before or not.

The thoughts of my companion Guinane, were not absorbed by wanderings like mine; and he had been more observant of what was transpiring around him. After the miner had gone out, he came close up to me, and whispered:—

“That man will be robbed. When he pulled out his bag of gold to pay for the drink, I saw two men exchange glances, and walk out before him. They will waylay, and rob him. Shall we let them do it?”

“Certainly not,” I answered, “I like the look of the man; and do not think that he deserves to lose his money.”

“Come on then!” said Guinane; and we both stepped out into the street.

The first direction in which we turned was the wrong one: for, after proceeding about a hundred yards, nothing of the drunken man was to be seen; and we knew that he was too drunk to have got any farther away.

We turned back; and walked at a quick pace—indeed, ran—in the opposite direction. This time our pursuit was more successful. We saw the drunken miner lying on the pavement, with two men standing over him, who pretended, as we came up, that they were his friends; and that they were endeavouring to get him home.

Had the drunken man been willing to accept of their assistance, we might have found no excuse for interfering; but as we drew near, we could hear him exclaiming, “Avast there, mates! I can navigate for myself. Be off, or, dammee! I’ll teach you manners.”

“Stormy Jack!” I exclaimed, rushing forward, followed by Guinane. “’Tis you Stormy? What’s wrong? Do you want any help?”

“Yes,” replied Jack, “teach these fellows some manners for me. My legs are too drunk; and I can’t do so myself.”

The two men moved silently, but rapidly away.

“Have you got your gold?” I asked, ready for pursuit in case the fellows had robbed him.

“Yes, that’s all right. One of them tried to take it; but I wouldn’t let him. I’m sober enough for that. It’s only my legs that be drunk. My hands are all right.”

Stormy’s legs were indeed drunk, so much so, that Guinane and I had much difficulty in getting him along. We were obliged to place him between us, each supporting one of his sides. After considerable labour, we succeeded in taking him to a house where I was acquainted. Here we put him to bed; and, after leaving instructions with the landlord, not to let him depart until one of us should return, we went home to our own lodgings.

Next morning, at an early hour, I called to see Stormy; and found him awake and waiting for me.

“You done me a good turn last night,” said he, “and I shall not forget it, as I have you.”

“Why do you think you have forgotten me?” I asked.

“Because last night you called me Stormy Jack; and from that, I know you must have seen me before. I’ve not been hailed by that name for several years. Now, don’t tell me who you are: for I want to find out for myself.”

“You could not have been very drunk last night,” said I, “or you would not remember what you were called?”

“Yes, would I,” answered Stormy, “according as the land lay, or what sort of drunk it was. Sometimes my mind gets drunk, and sometimes my legs. It’s not often they both get drunk together. Last night it was the legs. Had you been a man six or seven years ago, when I was called Stormy Jack, I should remember you: for I’ve got a good memory of things that don’t change much. But when I used to be called Stormy Jack, you must have been a bit o’ a tiny boy. Now, who can you be? What a stupid memory I’ve got!” continued he, scratching his head. “There’s no way of teaching it manners, as I knows of. But what boy used to call me Stormy Jack—that looked as you ought to have looked a few years ago? Ah! now I have it. Bless my eyes, if you arn’t the Rollin’ Stone!”

Stormy then rushed forward, grasped my hand, and nearly crushed it between his strong, sinewy fingers.

“Rowley, my boy!” said he, “I knew we should meet again. I’ve thought of you, as I would of my own son, if I’d had one. I’ve looked the world over, trying to find you. How come you to hail me by name last night? You are an astonishing chap. I knew you would be; and some one has larnt you manners. Ah! I suppose ’twas Nature as did it?”

I need not say, that Stormy and I, after this singular renewal of companionship, were not likely to part in a hurry. We passed that day together, talking over old times—Stormy giving me a history of some events of his life, which had transpired since our parting in New Orleans.

“On the morning I last saw you,” said he, “I went to work on the ship, as I intended; and did a hard day’s work—for which I’ve never yet been paid.

“When I was going home to you, I met an old shipmate; and, in course, we went into a grog-shop to have something to drink.

“After having a glass with my friend at his expense, of course, it was but right for him to have one at mine. We then parted company; and I made tracks for the lodging-house, where I had left you.

“Them two glasses of brandy, after working hard all the afternoon in the hot sun, did more for me, than ever the same quantity had done before. I was drunk somewhere, though I was not exactly certain where.

“Just before reaching the house where we were staying, I met the first breezer, who, you remember, had knocked me down with the carpenter’s mallet. Well! without more ado, I went to work to teach him manners.

“While giving him the lesson, I larnt that it was my head that was drunk: for my legs and arms did their duty. I beat and kicked him in a way, that would have rejoiced the heart of any honest man. Just as I was polishing him off, two constables came up, and collared me away to gaol.

“The next morning, I was sentenced to one month’s imprisonment. Captain Brannon did not like that: for he wanted me back aboard of his ship. But the magistrate, mayor, or whatever he was, that sentenced me, had too much respect for me to allow the captain to have his own way; and I was lodged and fed, free of all expense, until the ‘Hope’ had sailed.

“After coming out of the gaol, I went straight to the boarding-house, in hopes of finding you still there; but I larnt that you had gone away, the next day after I was jugged; and the old woman could not give any account of where you had drifted to. I thought that you had joined the ‘Hope’ again, and gone home. I’ve been everywhere over the world since then; and I don’t know how I could have missed seeing you before now!

“I came to San Francisco Bay in an English ship—the captain of which tried to hinder the crew from deserting, by anchoring some distance from the city, and keeping an armed watch over them. He thought we were such fools as to leave San Francisco in his ship for two pounds a month, when, by taking another vessel, we could get twenty! He soon found his mistake. We larnt him manners, by tying and gagging him, as well as his first officer, and steward. Then we all went ashore in the ships’ boats—leaving the ship where I suppose she is now—to rot in the bay of San Francisco.

“After coming up to the diggings, I had no luck for a long time; but I’m now working one of the richest claims as ever was opened.”

During the day, I told Stormy the particulars of my visit to Dublin; and the trouble I was in concerning the loss of my relatives.

“Never mind ’em!” said he, “make a fortune here—and then make a family of your own. I’ve been told that that’s the best way to forget old friends, though, for myself, I never tried it.”

Stormy’s advice seemed wisdom: as it led me to think of Lenore. Before parting with my old messmate, I learnt from him where he was living. We arranged to see each other often; and as soon as we should have an opportunity of dissolving the respective partnerships in which each was engaged, we should unite and work together.

Stormy was the first friend who took me by the hand—after I had been turned out upon the cold world; and time had not changed the warm attachment I had long ago conceived for the brave sailor.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Two.

On leaving San Francisco, Guinane had declared his intention of going to the Stanislaus river; and his acquaintances, left behind in that city, had been directed to write to him at the latter place.

One Saturday morning, he borrowed a mule from one of the neighbouring miners, to ride over to the post-office for his letters.

The miner owning the mule, was just going to his work; and pointed out the animal to Guinane. It was grazing on the hill-side, about half a mile distant from our tents. In addition to pointing it out, the owner described it to be a brown mule, with rat tail, and hog mane.

He then brought the saddle and bridle out of his tent; and, placing them at Dick’s disposal, went off to his work.

Dick proceeded towards the hill, caught and saddled the mule, and, bidding me good-day, rode off on his journey.

I was expecting him back that evening; but he did not return. I felt no concern on account of his remaining absent all that night. The next day was Sunday; and knowing that he would not be wanted to do any work on the claim, he might, for some purpose that did not concern me, have chosen to stay all night in the town.

Sunday evening came, without Guinane; and, fearing that some accident might have befallen him, I resolved to start next morning for the post-office, should he not return before that time.

The next morning came, without bringing back the absentee; and I set out in search of him.

After going about five miles, I met him returning; and, to my surprise, I saw that he was afoot! I was still more surprised as he drew near, and I obtained a close view of his face and features. Never in my life had I seen such a change in the person of any individual, in so short a time. He seemed at least ten years older, than when he left me at the diggings two days before.

His face was pale and haggard; and there was a wild fiendish expression in his eyes, that was fearful to behold. I could not have believed the eyes of Richard Guinane capable of such an expression. His clothing was torn to rags, bedaubed with dirt, and spotted with dry blood. In short, his whole appearance was that of a man who had been badly abused.

“What has happened?” I asked, mechanically—as soon as my surprise at his appearance permitted me to speak.

“I can’t tell now,” said he, speaking with much difficulty. “I must have water.”

I turned back; and we walked on towards our tents, in which direction we had not far to go, before arriving at a coffee-shop. There he drank some water, with a glass of brandy; and then, ordering a breakfast, he went out to have a wash in the river—an operation of which I had never seen a human being in greater need.

He ate his breakfast in haste—scarce speaking a word until he had finished. Then, starting suddenly from his seat, he hurried out of the house; and moved on along the road towards the place where our tents were pitched.

“Come on!” cried he. “I cannot stop to talk. I’ve work to do. I want revenge. Look here!”

He stopped till I came up—when, lifting the long dark hair from the sides of his head, he permitted me to see that he had no ears!

“Will you aid me in obtaining revenge?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered, “with my body and soul!”

“I knew you would!” he exclaimed. “Come on! we have no time to lose.”

As we walked homeward, I learnt from him the particulars of the terrible misfortune that had befallen him.

On the Saturday morning, after starting off for the town, he had got about a mile beyond the place where I had met him, when he was overtaken by a party of four Mexicans.

Before he was well aware that they had any intention to molest him, a lazo was thrown over his shoulders; and he was dragged to the ground—where his arms were instantly pinioned.

By signs, he was made to understand: that his captors claimed the mule, upon which he had been riding.

Guinane could speak but few words of Spanish; and therefore could not make the Mexicans understand, how the mule came into his possession.

After holding a consultation amongst themselves, they took his revolver from him; and, whilst three of them held him, the fourth cut off both of his ears! They then mounted their horses, and rode away—taking with them the mule Guinane had borrowed from the miner.

After going about three hundred yards, they halted, took off the saddle and bridle—which they did not claim to own—threw them on the ground, as also Guinane’s revolver; and then continued their course.

Nothing can be said to justify these men for what they had done; but probably they could have alleged some excuse for their conduct.

They undoubtedly believed that Guinane had stolen the mule; and they knew that if one of their own countrymen had been caught in a similar act, he would have been fortunate to have escaped with his life. They saw no reason why an American should not be punished for a misdeed—as well as a Mexican.

Guinane pursued them at the top of his speed, insane with grief, and burning with indignation.

They soon rode out of his sight; but he continued on after them—until he fell exhausted to the earth. He must have lain for some hours in a state of insensibility, partly caused by loss of blood—partly by the fatigue that had followed the wild raging of his passions.

It was night when he recovered his senses; and in his endeavours to reach home, he had wandered among the hills, in every direction but the right one.

I have said that he recovered his senses. The expression is hardly correct. He only awoke to a consciousness that he still existed—a horrible consciousness of the inhuman treatment he had been submitted to. His most sane thought was that of a burning thirst for vengeance; but so intense had been this desire, that it defeated its own object, rendering him unconscious of everything else, and to such a degree, that he had only discovered the right road to our camp a few minutes before I had met with him.

“The truth is,” said he, as he finished telling me his story, “I returned to the place where I lost my ears, with the insane hope that I might meet the Mexicans. After having a look at the place, I recovered my senses once more, enough to direct me towards the only object for which I now care to live and that is, revenge. I’m not in so much haste for it now, as I was an hour ago. There’s plenty of time. I’m young, and will find them sometime. Come on! Come on! How slow you walk!”

We were then going at a pace that might be called running.

On reaching our tents, we learnt that Guinane had actually taken the wrong mule! The miner from whom he had borrowed it, had not thought it necessary to describe its brands. Not supposing there was another mule in the neighbourhood, in any way resembling his own, he had not imagined there could be any mistake.

From some diggers, we learnt that the Mexicans we wished to find, had encamped for the night—near the place where Guinane had caught the mule; and it was not strange they had accused him of having stolen it. On recovering the animal, in the manner described, they had returned to their camp, and shortly afterwards had resumed their journey. By making some inquiries, we found that they had gone southward.

As they had no mining tools along with them, we came to the conclusion, that they were on their way home—into some of the northern provinces of Mexico. If so, we might easily overtake them, before they could pass out of California.

We lost no time in making preparations for the pursuit—the most important part of which was the providing ourselves with good horses. In due time, this difficulty was got over, although my bag of gold dust was much lighter, after the purchase of the horses had been completed.

By daybreak of the next morning, we were ready for the road. Guinane kept urging me to expedition—in pursuit of those who had awakened within his soul a thirst for vengeance, that blood alone could assuage!

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Three.

A Curious Case of Self-Murder.

The pursuit conducted us southward; and, at almost every place where we made inquiry, we heard of four mounted Mexicans—who could be no other than the men we were desirous of overtaking.

For the first two days, we were told, in answer to our inquiries, that they were about forty-eight hours in advance of us.

On the third morning, we again got word of them at a rancho, where they had stopped to bait their horses. The owner of the rancho gave a description of a mule which they were leading along with them—a brown mule, with rat tail and hog mane. It could be no other than the one, which had cost Dick so dearly.

After feeding their animals, the Mexicans had made no further halt; but had taken the road again—as if pressed for time. So fancied the ranchero.

They must have been under some apprehension of being pursued—else they would not have travelled in such hot haste. It was about forty hours—the man said—since they had taken their departure from the rancho. We were gaining upon them; but so slowly, that Guinane was all the while chafing with impatience.

He seldom spoke. When he did, it was to urge me to greater speed. I had much trouble in holding him sufficiently in check to prevent our horses from being killed with over riding.

From information obtained at the rancho, we could now tell that the Mexicans were making for the sea coast, instead of directing their march towards the interior. If they intended going overland to the city of Mexico, they were taking a very indirect road towards their destination.

At each place where we got word of them—on the fourth day of our pursuit—we learnt that the distance between us was rapidly lessening.

Near the evening of this day, we stopped at another rancho, to refresh our horses—now nearly done up. The Mexicans had stopped at the same place, six hours before. On leaving it, they had taken the road to San Luis Obispo. We should arrive there about noon on the following day.

“To-morrow,” said Guinane, as he lay down to snatch a short repose, while our horses were feeding, “to-morrow I shall have revenge or death! My prayer is, God let me live until to-morrow!”

Again we were in the saddle—urging our horses along the road to San Luis Obispo.

We reached that place at the hour of noon. Another disappointment for my companion!

San Louis is a seaport. A small vessel had departed that morning for Mazatlan, and the Mexicans were aboard of her!

On arriving at the port, they had hastily disposed of their animals; and taken passage on the vessel—which chanced to be on the eve of sailing. We were just one hour too late!

To think of following them further would have been worse than madness—which is folly. By the time we could reach Mazatlan, they might be hundreds of miles off—in the interior of Mexico.

Never have I witnessed such despondency, as was exhibited by Guinane at that moment.

So long as there had appeared a chance of overtaking the men, who had injured him, he had been sustained by the hope of revenge; but on our relinquishing the pursuit, the recollection of the many misfortunes that had darkened his life, added to this new chagrin, came palpably before his mind, suggesting thoughts of suicide!

“’Twas folly to pursue them at all,” said he. “I should have known that the chance of overtaking them would have been a stroke of fortune too good to be mine. Fate has never yet been so kind to me, as to grant a favour I so much desired; and I was a fool to expect it. Shall I die?”

I used every means in my power to direct his thoughts to some other subject; but he seemed not to heed, either what I said or did.

Suddenly arousing himself from a long reverie, he emphatically exclaimed:

“No! I will war with fate, till God calls me hence! All the curses of fortune shall not make me surrender. All the powers of Hell shall not subdue me. I will live, and conquer them all!”

His spirit, after a terrible struggle, had triumphed; and now rose in opposition to fate itself.

We rode back to the Stanislaus. It was a dreary journey; and I was glad when it was over. There had been an excitement in the chase, but none in returning from it. Even the horses seemed to participate in the cloudy change that had come over our thoughts.

After arriving at the Stanislaus, I went to see Stormy Jack. I found him hard at work, and doing well in his claim—which was likely to afford him employment for several weeks longer. I was pleased to hear of his success; and strongly urged him to abstain from drink.

“I don’t intend to drink any more,” said he, “leastwise, as long as I’m on the diggings; and sartinly not when I have any gold about me. That last spree, when I came so near losin’ it, has larnt me manners.”

Guinane accompanied me on this visit to Stormy; and on our return, we passed through the town. My partner had left his name at the office of “Reynold’s Express,” for the purpose of having his letters forwarded from the General Post-office in San Francisco. As we passed the Express Office, he called in, to see if any had arrived for him.

A letter was handed to him—for which he paid in postage and express charges, one dollar and fifty cents!

After getting the letter, we stepped into a tavern, where he commenced reading it.

While thus occupied, I noticed that he seemed strangely agitated.

“We are friends,” said he, turning short towards me. “I have told you some of my troubles of the past. Read this letter, and make yourself acquainted with some more. It is from Amanda Milne.”

He held the letter before my eyes, and I read:—

“I know your upright and manly spirit will see no impropriety in my writing to you. I have done you injustice; and in doing so, have wronged myself, as much as you. I have just learnt that your character has been injured by a fault of mine—by my not having acknowledged giving you the purse. Forgive me, Richard! for I love you, and have loved you, ever since I was a child.”—Guinane crumpled the letter between his fingers, and I was able to read no more. I saw him suddenly raise his hands towards the place where once were his ears—at the same time that I heard him muttering the words, “Too late! too late!” Another movement followed this—quick and suspicious. I looked to ascertain its meaning. A revolver was in his hand—its muzzle touching his temples!

I rushed forward; but to use his own last words, I was “too late.”

There were three distinct sounds; a snap, the report of a pistol, and the concussion of a body falling upon the floor.

I stooped to raise him up. It was too late. He was dead!

Can the reader comprehend the thought that dictated this act of self-destruction? If not, I must leave him in ignorance.

In preparing the remains of my comrade for the grave, a silk purse, containing a piece of paper, was found concealed beneath his clothing. There was writing upon the paper, in a female hand. It was as follows:—

“Dick,

“I do not believe the stories people tell of you; and think you are too good to do anything wrong I am sorry you have gone away. Good bye.

“Amanda.”

It was, no doubt, the note he had received from Amanda, after his first parting with her—enclosed in the letter of his mother, sent after him to New York. It was replaced in the purse, and both were buried along with his body.

Poor Amanda! She may never learn his sad fate—unless chance may direct her to the reading of this narrative.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Four.

An Impatient Man.

I have not much fault to find with this world—although the people in it do some strange things, and often act in a manner that puzzles me to comprehend. The man of whom Guinane had borrowed the mule, was himself an original character. After my comrade’s death, I became slightly acquainted with this individual; and was much amused, though also a little pained, at what I thought to be his eccentric behaviour.

Original types of mankind are, perhaps, more frequently met with on gold fields than elsewhere. Men without a certain spirit and character of their own, are less likely to adopt a life of so many perils and hardships, as gold diggers must needs encounter.

But there are also men who can appear eccentric—even amongst gold diggers; and the individual to whom I have alluded was one of these. His name was Foster.

The mail from the Atlantic States was due in San Francisco every fortnight; and, of course, at about the same interval of time, in the different diggings to which the letters were forwarded—the Stanislaus among the rest. Three days, before its arrival, at the last mentioned place, Foster used to leave his work, and go to the post-office—which stood at a considerable distance from his claim—for letters. He would return to his tent, as a matter of course, disappointed; but this did not prevent him from going again to the post-office, about six hours after.

“Has the mail arrived yet?” he would inquire of the post-master.

“No. I told you a few hours ago, that I did not expect it in less than three days.”

“Yes, I know; but the mail is uncertain. It is possible for it to arrive two or three days earlier than usual; and I want my letters as soon as they get in.”

“No doubt,” the post-master would say, “no doubt you do; and I advise you to call again in about three days.”

“Thank you; I will do so,” Foster would answer; and six hours after he would call again!

“As soon as the mail arrives,” the post-master would then tell him, “I will send your letters to you. It will be less trouble for me to do that, than to be so often unnecessarily annoyed.”

“No, no!” Foster would earnestly exclaim, “pray don’t trust them into the hands of any one. They might be lost. It is no trouble for me to call.”

“I can easily believe that,” the post-master would rejoin. “If it was any trouble, you would not come so often. I must, therefore, adopt some plan to save me from this annoyance. As soon as the mail arrives I will put up a notice outside the window here, and that will save you the trouble of coming in, and me of being bothered with your questions. Whenever you come in front of the house, and do not see that notice, you may be sure that the mail has not arrived. You understand?”

“Yes, thank you; but I don’t wish to give any unnecessary trouble. I dare say the mail will be here by the time I come again. Good-day!”

Six hours after, Foster would be at the post-office again!

“Any news of the mail?” he would ask.

“Are you working a good claim?” inquired the post-master once—in answer to this perpetual dunning.

“Yes,” replied Foster. “Tolerably good.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“Why?”

“Because if you were not doing well, you might be willing to go into some other business—the post-office for instance—and buy me out. If you were here yourself, you would have your letters as soon as they arrived. Since getting them seems to be your principal business, you should be on the spot to attend to it. Such an arrangement would relieve me, from a world of annoyance. You worry me, more than all the rest of the several hundred people who come here for letters. I can’t stand it much longer. You will drive me mad. I shall commit suicide. I don’t wish to be uncivil in a public capacity; but I can’t help expressing a wish that you would go to Hell, and never let me see your face again.”

Foster’s chagrin, at not getting his letters, would be so great, that the post-master’s peculiar wish would pass unheeded; and the letter-seeker would only go away to return again, a few hours after.

Usually about the tenth time he called, the mail would be in; and in the general scramble of the delivery, Foster would get two letters—never more, and never less.

One evening, near mail time, he was, as usual on a visit to the post-office after his letters; and his mate—whose name was Farrell—having got weary of sitting alone in his tent, came over to mine—to pass an hour or two in miner’s gossip. He told me, that Foster had been for his letters seven times during the two days that had passed!

“He will have to go about three times more,” said Farrell, “and then he will probably get them. The mail should be in this evening.”

“Forster appears to think very much of his family?” I remarked to his partner. “I never saw a person so impatient for news from home.”

“He is certainly very anxious to hear from home,” said Farrell, “but not exactly for the reasons you may be supposing. Foster and I are from the same neighbourhood, and have known each other for many years. We came to California together; and I am well acquainted with all the circumstances under which he is acting. Now, if you hailed from anywhere near that part of the world to which we belong, I should say nothing about him; but as you don’t, and it’s not likely you’ll ever drift in that direction, there can be no more harm in my telling you what I know, than there would be in talking about some one of whom we have read, and who has been dead a thousand years ago.”

“Foster married when he was very young—his wife being a woman about ten years older than himself. She was worse than old—she was plain; and besides had but very little sense. Add to this, that she was always ill; and ill-tempered, and you have a woman, whom you will admit could not be very agreeable for a wife.

“He had not been married over a week, before he discovered that he had been making a fool of himself.

“You have noticed his anxiety about the letters. Well—I shall explain it. By every mail, he expects news of the death of his wife; and it is his impatience to hear that which makes him so uneasy about the arrival of the post. If he should get a letter to-night containing the news of her death, he would be the happiest man in California; and I dare say would start for home, within an hour after receiving it.”

I expressed some surprise, that one man should intrust another with such a disgraceful secret; and plainly proclaimed my disapprobation of Foster’s conduct.

“You are wrong, my friend,” rejoined his partner. “For my part, I admire his frank and manly spirit. What is the use of one’s pretending that he wishes his wife to live, if he really desires her to die? I hate a hypocrite, or a person who will, in any way, deceive another. I don’t suppose that Foster can help disliking his wife—any more than he can keep from sleeping. The feeling may be resisted for a while; but it will conquer in the end. Foster is a man, in whom I cannot be deceived; and I respect him for the plain straightforward manner, in which he avows his sentiments.”

“This indecent impatience to hear of the death of his wife,” said I, “cannot wholly arise from hatred. There is probably some other woman with whom he is anxious to be united?”

“That is very, very likely,” answered Farrell, “and the second letter he always receives along with the one from his wife may serve as an affirmative answer to your conjecture. Well! he is one of the most open-hearted honourable fellows I ever met; and I don’t care how soon his hopes are realised. Because a man has been foolish a little in his youth, is no reason why he should always be punished for it.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Foster himself—who appeared in a high state of pleasant excitement.

“Come on, Farrell!” cried he, “let us go to the tent, and settle up. It is all over with the old lady; and I start for home by daybreak to-morrow morning.”

Farrell bade me good-night and Foster, who did not expect to see me again, shook hands at parting—bidding me a final goodbye.

There was much in the expression of Foster’s countenance that I did not admire; and, notwithstanding, the apparent openness of his speech, I could not help thinking him a fellow not only without good feeling, but hypocritical, and treacherous.

Farrell purchased his mule, and also his share of the mining tools; and by break of day the next morning, Foster was on his way to San Francisco.

The post-master of Sonora was annoyed by him no more; and Farrell was left to regret the loss of his plain-speaking partner.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Five.

A Bull and Bear Fight.

One Sunday afternoon, seeking for amusement, I walked into Sonora; and, following a crowd, I reached the “Plaza de Toros.”

The proprietor of this place had gone to a great expense, to get up a grand entertainment for that day.

A large grizzly bear had been caught alive in the mountains—about twenty miles from the town—and, at great trouble and expense, had been transported in a strong cage to Sonora—to afford amusement to the citizens of that lively little city.

To bring the bear from his native wilds, had required the labour of a large party of men; and several days had been spent in the transport. A road had to be made most part the way—of sufficient width to permit the passage of the waggon that carried the cage. Bridges had also to be thrown over streams and deep ravines; and the bear was not securely landed in Sonora, until after he had cost the proprietor of the Bull-ring about eleven hundred dollars.

Several savage bulls had also been provided for the day’s sport; and the inhabitants of the town, and its vicinity, were promised one of the most splendid, as well as exciting, entertainments ever got up in California.

I had before that time witnessed two or three Spanish bull fights; and had formed a resolution never to see another. But the temptation in this case—being a bull and bear fight—was too strong to be resisted: and I paid two dollars—like many others as foolish as myself—for a ticket; and, armed with this, entered the amphitheatre.

The Plaza de Toros was a circular enclosure with benches—on which about two thousand people could be comfortably seated; but, before the performance had commenced, the place contained three thousand or more. The first performance was an ordinary Spanish bull fight; and excited but little interest. The bull was soon killed, and dragged out of the arena.

After a short interval, a second bull made his bow to the spectators. The instant this one showed himself, everybody predicted an exciting scene: for the animal leaped into the arena, with a wild bellowing, and an expression of rage, that portended a very different spectacle, from that exhibited by his predecessor.

The toreros appeared surprised—some of them even confounded—by the fierce, sudden and energetic spring with which the bull charged into their midst.

A matador standing alone, in the arena, is in but little danger—even when pursued by the fiercest bull. It is when three or four of the toreros are in the ring together—getting in one another’s way while turning to avoid his horns—that the bull has the advantage over his adversaries. At such times, the bull-fighter runs a great risk of getting badly gored, or even killed outright.

The latter misfortune happened to one of the men, on the occasion in question. The second bull that had promised such a savage exhibition of his fierce strength, did not disappoint the spectators. In the third or fourth charge which he made among the matadors, he succeeded in impaling one of their number upon his horns. The body of the unfortunate man was lifted clear up from the ground, and carried twice round the ring—before the bull thus bearing him could be despatched!

Of course, the man was dead; and had been so, long before being taken off the animal’s horns. His heart’s blood could be seen running in a thick stream down the shaggy forehead of the bull, and dripping from his nose, as he carried the inanimate form around the arena!

The dead bodies of both man and animal were taken out of the place together, and on the same cart, the only interval allowed to elapse between the sports, was the short half hour necessary to making preparation for the grand spectacle of the day—the fight between the bear and a bull!

The cage containing the grizzly was drawn into the ring by a span of horses—which were at once taken away; and then a small, and not a very formidable “toro,” was led into the arena by several men, who guided him with their long lazos.

The appearance of this bull was disappointing to the spectators, who fancied that a much larger animal should have been chosen to encounter the savage monster of the mountains. The explanation was conjectured by all. The bear was worth over one thousand dollars, while the bull cost only twenty-five; and from this disparity in price, it was evident that the owner of both wished to give grizzly the advantage in the fight. This was made certain, by the proprietor himself coming forward with the unexpected proposal: that before commencing the fight, the bull should have the tips shaved off from his horns! “This,” he said, “would hinder the bear from receiving any serious injury; and it could be exhibited in a fight on some other Sunday!”

But the spectators wished to see a good fight on this Sunday, and a fair fight as well. They did not wish to see the poor bull deprived of his natural means of protecting himself; and then torn to pieces by the claws of the favoured bear.

The master of the amphitheatre was about to carry out his economic project—when a scene ensued that beggars all description. It ended in the bull being allowed to retain the tips of his horns.

The action now commenced. The hind leg of the bear was pulled out of the cage door—which was partially opened for the purpose. The leg was made fast, by a strong log chain, to a stake that had been driven deep into the ground near the centre of the arena. The door was then thrown wide open; but, notwithstanding this apparent chance of recovering his liberty, the bear refused to take advantage of it.

A rope was then made fast to the back of the cage, and attached to a horse standing outside the enclosure. By this means, the cage was dragged away from the bear, instead of the bear being abstracted from the cage—leaving the animal uncovered in the centre of the arena. The lazos were next loosed off from the horns of the bull; and the two combatants were left in possession of the ground—at liberty to exercise their savage prowess upon each other.

The bull on regaining his feet, rolled its eyes about, in search of something on which he might take revenge, for the unseemly way in which he had just been treated. The only thing he could conveniently encounter was the bear; and, lowering his muzzle to the ground, he charged straight towards the latter.

Bruin met the attack by clewing himself into a round ball. In this peculiar shape he was tossed about by the bull, without sustaining any great injury. After he had been rolled over two or three times, he suddenly unclewed himself; and, springing upward, seized the bull’s head between his fore paws.

So firm was his grip, that the poor bull could neither advance nor retreat—nor even make movement in any direction. It appeared as if it could only stand still, and bellow.

To make the grizzly let go his hold—in order that the fight might proceed with more spirit—a man, in the employ of the proprietor, entered the arena with a bucket of water—which he threw over the bear. The latter instantly relinquished his hold of the bull; and, rapidly extending one of his huge paws, seized hold of the servant who had douched him; and, with a jerk, drew the man under his body.

Having accomplished this feat, he was proceeding to tear the unfortunate man to pieces; and had squatted over him with this intention, when a perfect volley of revolvers—in all about two hundred shots—were fired at his body. The bear was killed instantly, though strange to say, his death was caused by a single bullet, out of all the shots that had hit him; and there were more than a hundred that had been truly aimed! The only wound, that could have proved fatal to such a monster, was a shot that had entered one of his ears, and penetrated to the brain. Many balls were afterwards found flattened against the animal’s skull, and his skin was literally peppered; but, though the man, at the time the shots were fired, was clutching the bear’s throat with both hands, he was not touched by a single bullet!

There were two circumstances connected with this affair, that, happening in any other land but California, would have been very extraordinary. One was, the simultaneous discharge of so many shots, at the moment when the bear was seen to have the man in his power. It might have been supposed, that the spectators had been anticipating such an event, and were ready with their revolvers: for the bear’s seizing the man, seemed a preconcerted signal for them to fire.

Another remarkable circumstance was, that, although the discharge of so many pistols was sudden and unexpected, and proceeded from every point round the circle of the amphitheatre—where thousands of people were crowded together—no one but the bear was injured by the shots!

It was a striking illustration of some peculiarities in the character of the energetic self-relying men of the world, that then peopled California.

In the “Plaza de Toros”—witnesses of the scenes I have attempted to describe—were many young girls belonging to the place, as well as others, from Mexico, Chili, and Peru. During the continuance of that series of exciting scenes—which included the killing of one person by empalement upon a bull, the mutilation of another by the claws of a grizzly bear, and the destruction of the bear itself, by a volley of revolvers—these interesting damsels never allowed the lights of their cigarritos to become extinguished; but calmly smoked on, as tranquil and unconcerned, as if they had been simply assisting at the ceremony of a “fandango!”

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Six.

Stormy’s Autobiography.

In my rambles about Sonora and its vicinity, when seeking amusement, on what is called the “first day of the week.” I was generally accompanied by Stormy Jack.

During my early acquaintance with the old sailor, I was too young to have formed a correct opinion of his character; and my respect for him, was based entirely upon instinct.

Now that I was older, and possessed of a more mature judgment, that respect—instead of having diminished—had increased to such a degree, as to deserve the name of admiration. I could not help admiring his many good qualities. He loved truth; and spoke it whenever he said anything. He was frank, honest, sociable, and generous. He had an abhorrence of all that was mean—combined with a genuine love for fair play and even-handed justice of every kind. He was in the habit of expressing his opinions so frankly, that, on the slightest acquaintance, every honest man became his friend, and every dishonest one his enemy.

Stormy was, in truth, one of nature’s noblemen—such a one as is seldom met with, and never forgotten. He was instinctively a gentleman; and the many long years in which he had been associated, with those who are thought to be lowest in the scale of civilisation, had not overcome his natural inclination.

Stormy was strong on all points but one; and that was, in the resisting his appetite for strong drink. To this he too often yielded.

“Do not think, Rowley,” said he one evening, when I chanced to allude to this subject, “that I can’t keep from thinking, if I tried. I never drank when I was young: for I had some hope and ambition then; and I could see the silliness of giving way to such a habit. It is only since I have become old Stormy Jack, and too old for my bad habits to be of any consequence to myself, or any one else. No, Rowley, it don’t signify much now, how often I get drunk—either in my mind or legs. When I was young, like you, I had no one to teach me manners—except the world; and it did larn me some. Wherever I went, every one appeared to think it was their business to teach me manners; and the way they went about it, was not always very gentle. I’ve seen hard times in this world, Rowley, my lad.”

“I have no doubt of it, Stormy,” said I, “for you have that appearance. You look as though, man, fate, and time had all used you roughly.”

“And so they have. I’ve nobody to thank for anything, unless it is the Almighty, for having given me health and strength to out-live what I have passed through; and I’m not sartin that I should be thankful for that. If you like, Rowley, I’ll tell you something of my history; and it’ll give you an idea of the way the world has used me.”

“I should like it much.”

“Here goes then! The first thing I can remember, is a father who used to get drunk in the legs; and the second, a mother who would as often get drunk in the head.

“As my father, when intoxicated, could not stand on his feet, nor move from the place in which he chanced to be, my mother would take advantage of his helplessness; and used to teach him manners, in a way that always kept his countenance covered with scratches, cuts, and bruises. I may add, that she served myself in a very similar manner. If ever either my father, or I, were seen in the streets without a fresh wound on our faces, the neighbours knew that there was no money in the house, or anything that would be received at a pawn shop for so much as sixpence. The soundness of our skins would prove the scarcity of cash in my father’s establishment; or as they say here in Californy, that we were ‘hard up.’

“About the time I was thirteen years of age, my parents discovered that they could no longer maintain themselves, much less me; and they sought, and found, a home in the work-house—whither I was taken along with them.

“Both died in the work-house the year after entering it; and I was apprenticed, or I might say hired out, to a baker.

“In this situation, I had a world of work to do. I had to sit up all night, helping the journeymen to make the bread; and then I had to go out for two or three hours every morning—with a heavy basket of loaves on my head, to be delivered to the customers living here and there. In addition to this hard work, I was nearly starved. The only time I could get enough to eat, was when I was out on my rounds with the bread, when I could steal a little scrap from each loaf—in such a way that the morsel wouldn’t be missed.

“I’ve not yet told you, that my native place is London; and if you know anything of that city, you may have some idea of the life I lived when a child, with two miserable, poor, and drunken parents.

“Well, I staid with the baker above two years; and though I was nearly killed with hard work and want of food—as well as sleep—that, perhaps, wasn’t the most unhappy part of my life. There was a worse time in store for me.

“The baker and his wife, who owned and ill-treated me, had a little girl in the house—a slavey they had taken from the same work-house from which they had fetched me. This girl wasn’t treated any better than I was; and the only happy moments either of us ever had, were when we could be together, and freely express our opinions of our master and mistress—both of whom behaved equally bad to us—if anything, the woman the worst. The girl and I used to encourage each other with hopes of better times.

“I had seen many little girls in the streets, dressed very fine, and looking clean, well-fed, and happy; and some of them I thought very beautiful. But none of them appeared so beautiful, as the one who was being worked and starved to death in the same house with myself—though her dress was nothing but a lot of dirty rags.

“By the time I had got to be sixteen years of age, I was too much of a man to stand the ill-usage of the baker and his wife any longer; and I determined to run away.

“I did not like to leave behind me my companion in misery; but as I thought, that, in a few weeks I should make a little fortune, and be able to find her a better home, we became reconciled to the idea of parting with one another.

“One morning I bade her good-bye; and started off with the basket of bread on my head to go my rounds.

“When I had nearly completed the delivery, and had left with different customers all but the last loaf, I set down the basket, took this loaf under my arm, and was free.

“I went straight to the docks to look out for something; and, before the day was over, I found a situation aboard a schooner in the coal trade—that was about to sail for Newcastle.

“The skipper of this vessel was also its owner; and himself and his family used it as their regular home.

“I was determined to please this man—not only by doing my duty, but as much more as I could. I succeeded in gaining his good will.

“We went to Newcastle, took in a cargo; and by the time we reached London again, the skipper would not have been willing to part with me, had I desired to leave him. When we got back to London, he gave me liberty to come ashore; and made me a present of half-a-crown, to spend as I liked.

“It was the largest sum of money I had ever owned; and, with it in my possession, I thought that the time when I might take my little fellow servant away from the hard life she was leading, could not be far away. I determined not to spend one penny of the money upon myself; but to go ashore at once, and make a bold push towards getting the girl away from the place where she was staying.

“I told the skipper all about her—what sort of a home I had left her in—and the cruelties she was still likely to be enduring.

“He talked to his wife; and after they had asked me a good many questions: as to whether the girl was well-behaved, and used no bad language—they told me that I might bring her aboard the vessel then lying in the river; and that she might look after the three children, and do anything else to make herself useful.

“I started off on my errand, in better spirits than I had ever been in before. I was afraid to go near the baker’s house, for fear I should be seen from the shop and might have trouble in getting away again: for I had been regularly bound as his apprentice. So I watched the public-house—where I knew the girl would be sure to come for the supper beer in the evening.

“After I had been looking out for about half an hour, she came, looking more beautiful, more ragged and dirty, than when I had last seen her, four weeks before.

“‘Come on, Ann!’ I cried. (Ann was her name.) ‘Come on! Fling away your jug, and follow me!’

“I ran up to her, while I was speaking.

“She dropped the jug—not because I had told her to do so—but from the excitement of her surprise at seeing me. It fell out of her hands on the pavement; and was broken to pieces.

“‘Follow me,’ said I, ‘I’ve another home for you.’

“She gave one glance at the broken jug; and probably thought of her mistress, and the beating she would be sure to get, should she go home without the jug and the supper beer. That thought decided her. She then took my hand; and we started off towards the river.

“I am going to cut my story short,” said Stormy, after a pause—during which he seemed to suffer from some painful reflection. “For nine years I worked for that girl. Part of the time I was getting good wages—as the second mate of a large ship, running to Charleston, in the United States; and all of my money was spent in keeping Ann in a good home, and in having her taught to read and write, and behave herself like a lady.

“To deny myself every comfort, for the sake of saving money for her, was my greatest pleasure. I have often crossed the Atlantic without proper clothing; so that Ann might be placed beyond the danger of want, while I was gone.

“During these nine years, I drank no grog, nor liquor of any kind. I would not even take a glass at the expense of any of my messmates, because I would be expected to stand a glass in return; and there was more pleasure in saving the money for Ann, than in spending it on what could only injure me. I have often walked the cold wet decks with my feet freezing for the want of a pair of socks and good boots—because these things would cost money: and all that I could make I wished to spend only for the benefit of Ann, who was always in my thoughts—the idol of my soul.

“While making my voyages across the Atlantic, I got some of my companions to learn me to read and write a little. I worked very hard at this, when I could find time. There were two reasons for my wishing to be able to write: the first, because I had some desire to learn on my own account; and the other reason was, that when I should marry Ann, I did not wish her to have a husband who could not write his own name.

“When I had got to be about twenty-three years of age, I began to think of getting married. I was earning good wages; and had saved enough money to furnish a little house for Ann. Just about that time, however, I noticed she had begun to treat me with a little coldness. I had been so very saving of my money, that I always went rather shabbily dressed; and I at first thought that she might be a little ashamed of my appearance. I knew that this would not be right on her part; but I also knew that women have got vanity; and that they cannot help a feeling of that kind. I could not think that it was possible for Ann not to love me—after the many sacrifices I had made for her—for I deserved her love, and had fairly earned it. I thought that if there was a man worthy of being loved by her, and having her for his wife, I was that man, for I had done all that I was able to gain her good will; and no one can do more. I was under the belief, too, that she loved me: for she had many a time told me so. You may imagine, then, how I was taken aback, when one time that I returned from a voyage to give her all the money I had earned, I found that she treated me very coldly; and that every day she grew colder and colder, and seemed as if she only wanted to get clear of my company.”

At this interesting crisis of his story, Stormy was interrupted by the entrance of two of our mining neighbours, who came into our tent to have a quiet game of “uker” along with us.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Seven.

Ann.

I had been much interested in Stormy’s story of his early life; and the next evening, I went over to his tent, and taking a seat upon the ground, requested him to continue it.

“All right, Rowley, my boy,” said he, in answer to my appeal. “I believe that I left off last night, where the girl, after my having worked nine years for her, had begun to treat me with coldness.

“Well, on becoming sure of this, I determined to find out the reason. I knew there must be something wrong; and I made up my mind to find out what it was—though it might lead to the breaking up of all my fine prospects. One day, when my ship was about to start on a new trip to Charleston, I settled scores with the captain, and left her. Ann was under the belief, that I had gone off in the vessel; but she was mistaken. I had stopped behind, to keep an eye on herself. A few months before, I had given her some money—to enable her to go into partnership with a widow, in keeping a little stationery and toy shop—and she was now in that business. My scheme was to keep an eye on the shop; and see what was going on. I had not been very long playing spy, before I found out the lay of the land. A young fellow of a swellish appearance, used to pay visits to the shop, nearly every day of the week. He came in the evening; and Ann would go out with him to theatres and dancing places.

“I watched the fellow to his home, or to his lodgings—for he lived in a two-pair back; and from there I tracked him to his place of business. I found that he was what in London is called a ‘clerk.’ He was a thing unworthy of Ann; but, of course, that being the case, he did not know it; and I could see from his vain looks that he thought sufficiently of himself—too much to marry Ann. From what I saw, I had no doubt that he was deceiving her.

“I scarce knew what to do: for there was no use in telling the girl that she was being deceived. She would not have believed me.

“If she had believed me, and given the puppy up, it would not have made much difference to me. My confidence in her was gone. I could have had it no more. She had acted ungrateful to me—by giving her preference to a conceited swell—who took her about to places of amusement, where men do not take young girls, whom they intend afterwards to marry. Ann had proved herself unworthy of a love like mine. I had toiled for her, and loved her, for nine long years; and this was the return.

“My good resolutions all forsook me—by the shock which her ingratitude gave me; and ever since that time, I’ve been only Stormy Jack, and nothing more. You know what he is.” Stormy once more relapsed into silence, as if his story had been concluded. More deeply interested than ever, I desired to know more. In answer, to my request, he resumed his narrative.

“Well,” continued he. “My next voyage was a long one. I made the trip to India, and was gone fourteen months; but on my return, at the end of that time, I had not forgotten Ann. I still loved her—although I knew that she could never be my wife. Even had she consented, my pride would not allow of my marrying her now.

“When I got back from India, I went to the little shop to enquire for her. She was no longer there. I found her in the work-house—the same from which she had been taken when a child. She was the mother of a child, seven months old; and had never been married. I determined to teach her manners. You may think it strange, Rowley, but I was now, more than ever, resolved she should love me. It would be some satisfaction for what I had suffered on her account. I knew my motive wasn’t altogether as it ought to have been, but I could not help doing as I did.

“When paid the wages, owing me by the East Indiaman, I had about twenty-five pounds to the good; and, with this money, I took Ann out of the work-house, and placed her in a comfortable home. I acted, to all appearance, as kindly to her, and seemed as affectionate as I had ever been; and I even gave her more of my company than I had ever done before. When she came to contrast my conduct with that of the heartless villain who had ruined and deserted her, she could not help loving me. On her knees, and with tears in her eyes, she confessed her folly, and sorrow for the past; and prayed for me to forgive her.

“‘Of course, I forgive you, Ann,’ said I, ‘or I would not have returned to you.’

“‘And will you love me as much as you once did?’ she then asked.

“‘Certainly I will.’

“‘John,’ she said, ‘you are the most noble-minded man in the world; and I only begin to know your real worth. Oh! what a fool I have been, not to have known it before! You are better than all other men on the earth!’

“Ann had got over the folly of her girlhood. The sorrows which she had suffered during the last few months, had taught her wisdom, and brought repentance; and she now believed, that such love as I had offered her was of some value.

“I visited her every day; and appeared to take such an interest in the welfare, both of herself and her child, that I, at length, became certain that she loved me. She could not have helped it, had she tried. Poor girl! she fancied she was going to be happy again; but she was mistaken.

“When my money was all spent, I prepared to take leave of her. Before going, I told her the truth, that I had loved her, ever since she was a child; and that I ever would; but that I could never make her my wife. After what had transpired, I could never be happy as her husband.

“‘I shall never forget you, Ann,’ said I. ‘Whenever I have a pound in my pocket, you are welcome to fifteen shillings of it; but my happiness, for this world, you have entirely destroyed; and I can never marry you, as I once intended to do. You know the many years that I toiled for you; and was that not proof that I loved you dearly? All that I have done, I am willing to do again; but what I had hoped to do, is no longer possible. You have not proved worthy of my love, and can never be my wife.’

“As I said this, she was nearly distracted; and declared that she would never accept another shilling from me. She promised to do for me all that I had done for her: to work for me, and let me live in idleness. I had at last succeeded in winning her love.

“Perhaps I was wrong in having done so; but the manner in which I had been myself wronged, rendered me incapable of acting honest. I could not help taking this way to larn her a little manners. There was another I intended larning a lesson to, before I left London; but I determined to teach him in a very different way. It was the swell that had ruined Ann.

“I looked out for him; and found him in the street, on the way to his place of business. I laid one o’ my flippers on his shoulder, to keep him from escaping, while I gave him his lesson with the other. I flattened his nose, nearly tore off one of his ears; and did him some other damage besides. The police pulled me off o’ him; and I was taken away to the station, and next day brought before a magistrate.

“I only got two months for giving the conceited snob his lesson, which I didn’t much regret, for I was just as well off in the gaol as anywhere else. My time or my liberty was worth nothing more to me. When again set free, I made another voyage to India, and got back in fourteen months.

“When I returned, Ann was dead. She had died in the same work-house, in which she was born.

“Since then, there has been no particular reason why I should behave myself; and I have been, as you see me, old Stormy Jack. I never again thought of getting married. I could only love but one; and that one it was not my fate to be spliced to. I suppose it was never intended I should get married. At all events, I don’t mean to try. I made one girl miserable by not marrying her; and I might make another miserable if I did.”

With this hypothetical reflection, Stormy concluded his sad story.

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

A Strange Summons from Stormy.

As already stated, I had left the northern diggings with the design of going to the Tuolumne river; and that on my way to the latter place I had met Guinane—who had induced me to relinquish my design, and stop awhile on the Stanislaus.

Now that Guinane was gone, and the claim in which we had been partners worked out, there was nothing to hinder me from carrying out my original intention; and I resolved, to leave the Stanislaus’ diggings, and proceed onward to the Tuolumne.

Stormy Jack, who stayed behind, promised to join me, as soon as he should have worked out his claim on the Stanislaus—which he expected to do in about three weeks.

On reaching the Tuolumne, I proceeded to Jacksonville—a little mining village, where, after looking about a couple of days, I purchased two shares in a claim that lay upon the bank of the river.

Not liking the sort of work required to be done on this claim—which was wet—I employed men to work it for me. I could afford to do this: for, having toiled hard ever since my arrival in the diggings, and not having been either unsuccessful or extravagant, I had begun to believe that Lenore might yet be mine. The brighter this hope became, the more value did I set on my life; and was therefore careful not to endanger my health by working in a “wet claim.”

Another change had taken place in my domestic arrangements. I no longer lived in a miner’s tent, nor did I continue to act as my own cook and washer-woman. I was worth several hundred pounds; and began to have a better opinion of myself than ever before. So proud was I of possessing such a sum of money, that had I been in Liverpool at that time, I should not have hesitated to talk of love to Lenore.

The life of most gold-diggers is wretched beyond belief. The inconveniences and hardships they endure are but poorly repaid, by their freedom from the irksome regulations and restraints of more civilised life. I have seen miners eating bread that had been kneaded in a hat, and baked in the hot ashes of their camp fire! I have seen them suffering many hardships—even hunger itself—at the very time they were encumbered with ponderous bags of gold!

In the days when gold-digging was romantic and fashionable, I have seen learned lawyers, skilled physicians, and eloquent divines—who had been seduced by the charms of a miner’s life—passing the Sabbath day at the washtub, or seated outside their tents, needle in hand, stitching the torn seams of their ragged and scanty clothing. I had myself been following this rude manner of life, ever since my arrival at the diggings; but it had now lost its charms, and after reaching the Tuolumne, I took up my residence in a French boarding-house.

My two shares in the claim I had purchased soon began to yield a rich return, so that I was able to purchase several more, and also employ more men in working them.

One day I received a visit from Stormy Jack, who had come over from the Stanislaus, as he said, “to take bearings before sailing out from Sonora.”

He saw how comfortably I was living in Jacksonville; and that I was making money without much hard work.

“I’ll come and live like you,” said he, “for I am getting too rich myself to go on as I’ve been doing. I won’t stand hard work any longer.”

After spending the day with me, he returned to Sonora—with the intention of selling out his claims on the Stanislaus, and coming to reside at Jacksonville.

The day after he had gone away—which chanced to be Saturday—at a late hour of the evening, I received a letter from him. He had written it that morning, and sent it to me by a shopkeeper who chanced to be returning to Jacksonville. So badly was the letter written, that I was occupied all the rest of the evening deciphering it; but after spending much time, patience, and ingenuity upon the epistle, I arrived at a tolerable understanding of the intelligence it was intended to convey.

Stormy commenced by stating, that I must excuse all faults: for it was the first letter he had written for a period of more than thirty years. In fact, all correspondence of an epistolary kind on Stormy’s part had been discontinued on the death of Ann!

I was then informed, in the old sailor’s characteristic fashion, that a murder had just been committed on the Stani. A woman had been killed by her husband; and the husband had been summarily tried, and found guilty of the crime.

The next day, at noon, the miners were going to teach the murderer “manners,” by hanging him to a tree. I was advised to come over, and be a spectator of the lesson—for the reason that Stormy believed we had both seen the guilty man before. Stormy was not sure about this. The murderer bore a name, that he had never heard me make use of; but a name was nothing. “I’ve a bit of a fancy in my head,” wrote Stormy, “that I have seen the man many years ago; and that you will know who he is—though I can’t be sartain. So come and see for yourself. I’ll expect you to be at my tent, by eleven o’clock in the mornin’.”

Who could the murderer be, that I should know him? Could Stormy be mistaken? Had he been drinking; and this time become affected in the brain, instead of the legs?

I could hardly think it was drink. He would not have taken the trouble to write, his first epistle in thirty years, without some weighty reason.

I went to see the store-keeper who had brought the letter. From him I learnt that a murder had been committed by a man from Sydney, and that the murderer was to be hung on the following day.

As I continued to reflect on the information I thus received, a horrid thought came into my mind. Could the murderer be Mr Leary? Could his victim have been my mother?

There was a time when this thought would have produced on me a different effect from what it did then, a time when, dark as might have been the night, such a suspicion would have caused me to spring to my feet and instantaneously take the road to Sonora.

It did not then. I now felt less interest in the mystery I had so long been endeavouring to solve. Time, with the experience it brought, had rendered me less impulsive, if not less firm in purpose. I could not, however, sleep upon the suspicion; and after passing a wretched night, I was up before the sun.

Sonora was about thirteen miles distant from the Tuolumne diggings. It would be a pleasant morning walk; and I determined to go afoot. The exercise would only give me an appetite—so that I should enjoy my breakfast after reaching the Stanislaus. I could take plenty of time on the way, and still be there by nine o’clock—two hours sooner Stormy expected me.

I started along the road—meditating as I walked onward, what course I should pursue, supposing the murderer should turn out to be Leary, and supposing the murdered woman to be my mother!

Mr Leary was the husband of my mother. He was my stepfather. Should I allow him to be hung?

Such thoughts coursed rapidly through my mind, as I proceeded along the solitary path. I could not check them, by the reflection that, after all, the man might not be Mr Leary. Why I had thought of him at all, was because I could think of no other man that Stormy and I had both known before—at least, none who was likely to have committed a murder. But my correspondent might still be mistaken; and the condemned criminal be a stranger to both of us?

When I had walked about a mile along the main road to Sonora I left it—knowing that I could make a shorter cut by a path, leading over the ridge that separates the valleys of the Stanislaus and Tuolumne.

I had got, as I supposed, about half-way to Sonora; and was passing near a chapperal thicket, when a large grizzly bear rushed out of the bushes, and advanced straight towards me.

Fortunately a large live oak tree was growing near, with limbs that extended horizontally. I had just time to climb up among the branches. A second more, and I should have been grasped by the claws of the grizzly. Unlike his congener the brown bear, the grizzly cannot climb a tree, and knowing this I fancied myself safe.

Taking a seat on one of the limbs of the live oak, I proceeded to contemplate the interesting position in which I was placed. The bear had a brace of cubs playing in the chapperal near by. I could hear them sniffing and growling; and soon after got sight of them, engaged in their uncouth, bearish frolics. It would have been pleasant enough to watch these creatures; but the prospect of how I was to regain my liberty soon became the sole subject of my thoughts—by no means a pleasant one.

I saw that, the bear was not inclined to leave the tree, while her interesting family was so near. That seemed certain. The chance of any person passing, near that lonely place, was one against a hundred. The path was very little used, and only by an occasional pedestrian like myself.

To ensure the safety of her offspring, the bear might keep me up that tree until her cubs had arrived at the age of discretion, and be able to take care of themselves. Under the circumstances, I could not subsist so long.

Always having allowed myself to believe, that a civil tongue, a good bowie-knife, and the sense to mind my own business, were a much better protection than fire-arms, I seldom carried a revolver—as most people in California, at that time, were in the habit of doing. I now found need of the weapon, when I had it not.

I was not, however, wholly unprovided with what might console me in my dilemma: for I had some good cigars and a flask of brandy,—that happened to have been put into my pocket the night before. To aid me in calculating the chances of regaining my liberty, I took a pull at the flask, and then lighted a cigar.