Part 2

I breathed a sigh of relief, and strolled leisurely along after the stranger. I do not know why, but I felt that the boy was safe. I was sure I could not be mistaken in my interpretation of the play of emotions that had animated the stranger’s face, as he watched the game which had ruined the poor lad whom he was evidently following.

I soon saw that I was right. The stranger caught up with the boy just as he stepped into the brilliant light that illuminated the sidewalk in front of the gambling den. Placing one hand upon the boy’s shoulder, he gently but firmly halted him, I meanwhile drawing back into the shadow of the outer door of the Palace, determined, with the best of motives, to see the thing through.

“Don’t be frightened, my lad,” said the man, “I just want to say a word to you, that’s all.”

The boy looked at him as though dazed for a moment, and then replied slowly:

“I’m not frightened, sir. You’re not apt to do anything worse to me than I’ve already done to myself. My money is all gone, and you can’t do any more than kill me, if you don’t want money. As for killing me,--well, I have more lead than gold left, and I’ve not forgotten how my father taught me to die, like a gentleman.”

I fancied that the boy looked quite the hero as he spoke. There was a little touch of the southron born about him that brought my Kentucky home back to me. I had seen such boys there, and I knew--well, there was one who was something like that, whom I would have given the world to see, and my heart went out to that poor, unfortunate lad. And, yet, for some reason, I had an even kinder feeling for the man who was evidently going to act the friend and adviser of our mutual _protegé_.

“Pardon me for even suggesting that you might be frightened,” said the unknown, “but you are young; San Francisco has some queer ways and still queerer people, and it’s not every man who gets the drop on you who means well. I am free to say that I should be uneasy myself, were I to be similarly accosted, and they say I am--well, that I’m ‘no chicken’, you know. Where are you from, my boy?”

“I’m from Virginia, sir,” replied the boy, straightening up with a little of the Old Dominion pride, I thought.

“Ah!” exclaimed his new-found friend, “I was sure I detected a little of the old cavalier strain in your face. What is your name, may I ask?”

“Gordon Cabell, sir.”

“Well, Master Cabell, I know your breed pretty well; I’m from--well, I’ve met southern boys before. Now, I’m going to talk plainly to you, and you mustn’t be offended. I’m going to be your friend, for to-night, at least, and you must listen to me.

“I’m not going to give you a moral lecture on gambling or liquor drinking. I presume that the Gordons, Cabells, and many more of your ancestors, have played cards, drunk whisky, raced horses, attended cock fights, and fought duels, and have done many other things that people with colder blood object to, but they did all these things like gentlemen, I’ll warrant you. Now, tell me, young fellow, did you ever know of a Cabell doing what you have done, and still worse, what you were going to do to-night?”

“Sir!” said the boy indignantly, reaching toward his pistol, “I will--”

“Oh, no you won’t, Master Cabell. Look me in the eye, please!” and the boy gazed at the stranger wonderingly, as he drew his tall form up to its full height, calmly folded his arms, and looked down upon him.

“I have already told you that I am your friend, Gordon, and the Cabells do not make targets of their friends. Give me your pistol, sir!”

The boy almost mechanically drew his pistol from the holster beneath his loose-fitting coat, and obeying the mandate of a will more powerful than his own, handed it to his companion.

“Thank you, Gordon,” said the stranger, “I’ll return it to you presently.

“Now, my boy, let us get to business. You have fallen among thieves, and have been plucked, like the unsuspecting, foolish pigeon that you are. I don’t want to know your past history; life is too short, but I do want a hand in your future.

“You are the scion of aristocratic stock. Your ancestors before you were worshippers at the shrine of beauty, but it was the beauty of purity and virtue. You have been dragging your family pride down into the dirt, and offering up your young soul upon an altar which a true son of the Old Dominion should loathe. You have squandered your money trying to beat a game that’s a ‘dead-open-and-shut’ against you. You are listening to one who knows whereof he speaks, I assure you, my boy.

“Not satisfied with what you had already done, which after all is easily remedied, you were about to stain your family name and record with a crime that nothing on earth could ever wipe out. You were about to kill--a fool, Gordon, who may yet be made a wise man.

“I once knew a boy who played the fool--much as you have done--and who is still expiating his folly. He might eventually have done as you were about to do, only he happened to be compelled to--well, he didn’t shoot himself, that’s one thing to his credit, although his family, and not himself, was perhaps the gainer by it, or will be sometime, if the truth is ever known. He couldn’t avoid the other--there was nothing about that of which he had cause to be ashamed, although the world, that knows not the circumstances, thinks differently.

“Now, Gordon, I’m going to stake you. Don’t say no--it is a loan if you please, or anything you choose to call it. Take this, and get out of this hell-hole of a town as quick as the Lord will let you.”

The boy stood for a moment with the tears streaming down his cheeks, and then hesitatingly took the proffered bag of dust.

“And you will really let me pay it back to you, sir, when I am able?”

“I certainly will, if we ever meet again,” replied the man. “As I have already told you, my boy, I know your breed; it is not the kind that likes to remain under obligations to one who is an entire stranger. But, after all, your honorable intention clears the obligation.

“And, Gordon, here’s your pistol. I think it will be safer in your hands than it was a short time ago. And now I am going to give you a few parting words of advice.

“In the first place, young fellow, don’t gamble. If your blood is too red to heed this admonition, learn to play poker. It’s a scientific game and a square one, usually--always so among gentlemen. Never bet against another man’s game, nor play against a percentage. Gambling games of that kind are like the play of life, the percentage is in favor of the dealer, and it fetches you sooner or later.

“In the second place, young man, set up a shrine in your heart, and worship female purity and virtue; then you are safe. If you have a mother or sisters, don’t forget that a woman who is not fit for their society is not worthy of your regard.

“Youthful affection, my boy, is not inexhaustible. Keep it for future reference--and worthy objects. You may yet live to wish that the worldly heart of to-morrow were the young and fresh one of yesterday.

“And now, I must leave you. Good-night, my boy, and don’t forget what I have said to you.”

“But, sir,” cried the lad, “your name, who shall I--?”

His benefactor had disappeared in the darkness.

The boy stood for a time gazing blankly into the night in the direction in which the stranger had disappeared; then, drawing himself up proudly, as became a son of fair Virginia, he placed the bag of gold in his pocket and his pistol in its holster, cast a scornful glance toward the windows of the Palace and strode resolutely away.

* * * * *

A few days after the scene at the gaming house, I chanced to meet an old time friend of my father’s, hailing from Maine. Mr. Allen, it seemed, had “struck it rich” and was on his way back to the “States.” From this gentleman I received a glowing account of the wealth of the placer mining region in Tuolumne county, which at once determined my future course. When he informed me that the country where he had made his “pile” was not only rich in gold, but badly in need of doctors, I decided that Tuolumne should have at least one medical celebrity.

Investing some of my greatly diminished capital in an outfit which I thought might harmonize to a certain extent with the new field for which I was about to depart, I bade farewell to San Francisco and set my face toward the fame and the pot of gold that lay at the foot of the rainbow of my dreams.

* * * * *

It was a calm sultry evening in the month of July, 1860, that I embarked on board a steamboat plying between San Francisco and Stockton, the latter city being the gateway to the wonderful country distinguished by its wealth and scarcity of doctors, so graphically described by my friend, Mr. Allen.

The trip up the Sacramento river, although pleasant enough, had very little novelty about it, and I confess that I at first experienced a feeling of disappointment at the lack of entertainment which the scenery afforded.

Our route lay for a comparatively short distance up the Sacramento, the major portion of my journey being comprised by one of its tributaries--the San Joaquin--a stream that is insignificant enough during the dry season, but which in the early spring is formidable enough to those who live sufficiently near the river to get the benefit of its overflow during the spring freshets.

The San Joaquin river is, without doubt, the crookedest navigable stream in the world. There was never a snake that could contort himself into so fantastic an outline as presented by that lazily meandering branch of the Sacramento. So crooked is it, that one entertains a constant dread of running ashore; the bank is always dead ahead and unpleasantly near.

This serpentine river traverses a perfectly level plain throughout the navigable part of its course, its banks being flanked by tule beds which extend farther than the eye can see. Indeed, the valley of the San Joaquin is one vast bed of tules, extending fully one hundred and fifty miles. When, as sometimes happens during the dry season, the tule beds take fire, the spectacle, especially at night, is at once grand and terribly impressive. I remember on one occasion taking a night trip up the river during one of these fires. The scene in the vicinity of Monte Diablo, was one of the most majestic and awe inspiring I have ever witnessed. The name of “Devil’s Mountain” seemed singularly appropriate.

It was nearly three in the morning when I arrived at Stockton, and, as there was nothing to be gained by going ashore, I remained on board the boat, determined to get the full benefit of a morning nap. It seemed to me that I had just closed my eyes, when I was awakened by the yelling of the roustabouts and stage agents on the wharf. I had barely time to dress, hustle ashore and hurriedly swallow a cup of coffee, before my stage was ready to start, and I was off for Jacksonville--the particular town of Tuolumne county that I had determined to favor with my medical skill and fortune-hunting ambition.

There was nothing pleasant about that stage ride--it was memorable only for its inconveniences and its motley load pf passengers. A hot, dusty, bumping journey in the old time California stage makes pretty reading as Bret Harte has described it but I am free to say that the reality was not so enjoyable. The red dust of the California stage road gets into a fellow’s system so deeply that his ideas are likely to be of a practical or even profane sort, even though he be normally quite sentimental.

Picturesque, however, the ride certainly was. Several red-shirted, rough-bearded miners, lent just the right touch of local color, while the imitation frontiersman--of whom I was the type--was sufficiently well represented to afford a suitable foil for the genuine article, as typified by my brawny-chested, be-pistoled, unkempt fellow passengers.

In one corner of the stage was a little chap who was evidently what we would call a dude nowadays. This young gentleman had done his level best to put a bold front on matters, by rigging himself out like a cowboy. The result was somewhat ludicrous, as may be imagined. Nor was the poor little idiot by any means unconscious of his features of incongruity--he realized most keenly the absurdity of his position and the fact that he was being guyed. The miners, however, seemed to enjoy the situation immensely.

“Say, pardner,” said one tawny-bearded giant, leaning toward the innocent, and startling him so that his eye glasses nearly dropped off his nose--“Gimme a pull at yer pistol, wont ye?”

“Ah, beg pawdon, sir, what did you say?” stammered the dude.

“W’y I s’posed you could understan’ th’ English langwidge,” replied the miner, “but seein’ ez how ye don’t, I’ll translate her to ye. I asked ye ter give me a pull at yer whisky bottle.”

“Ah, really,” said the innocent, “I’d be chawmed, you know, doncher know, but I don’t carry the article. In fact, sir, I nevah drink.”

“Ye don’t say so? Well, I want ter know!” answered the miner. “Now, see hyar, sonny, seein’ ez how you aint got no whisky, jest gimme a chaw uv terbacker an’ we’ll call it squar’.”

“I--aw--I’m sorry to say that I don’t use tobacco, sir.”

“Sho! g’long, young feller! Is--that--so? How the h--l d’ye keep a goin’? Whut d’ye do fer excitement--p’raps ye plays poker, eh?” said the stalwart son of the pick.

“Oh no!” exclaimed the tenderfoot in dismay, “I nevah play cards!”

“Ye don’t tell me!” replied the miner. “Well, well, well! By the way, young feller; be keerful not ter lose ’em--ye mout need ’em ter git home with.”

“Need what, sir?” asked the victim.

“Yer wings!”--and the miners broke out in a huge guffaw that bade fair to dislocate a wheel of the stage, and impelled the driver to look anxiously and inquiringly at his passengers.

The tenderfoot collapsed and remained in a state of complete innocuousness until he arrived at his destination, which, fortunately for his sensitive organization, happened to be the first town where we changed horses. As he minced gingerly away toward the hotel, the miners winked at each other most prodigiously. Happening to catch the big fellow’s eye, by a happy inspiration I was impelled to wink also. This at once established me on a friendly footing with my rough companions, and, as I happened to have a bottle of fairly good liquor with me, the rest of the way into the regard of those simple miners was easily traversed.

During the conversation that naturally followed the unconventional formation of our acquaintance, the big-bearded fellow, who appeared to be the leader of the little party of miners, following the blunt fashion of the country, suddenly remarked:

“By the way, stranger, whut might yer name be, an’ whut part uv the diggin’s might yer be headin’ fer?”

“Well,” I replied smilingly, “it is about time we introduced ourselves, isn’t, it? My name is William Weymouth, recently of Kentucky, a doctor by profession, and bound for Jacksonville, where I contemplate digging gold when the weather will permit, and practicing medicine when it will not.”

“A doctor, an’ bound fer Jacksonville, eh? Well, Doc,” said my new acquaintance, reaching out his grimy paw with a cordiality that could not be mistaken, “I’m d--d glad ter know ye! Jacksonville is our town, an’ a h--l uv a good town she is at that, y’u bet! We’re jest gittin’ back from Frisco, an’ doin’ it on tick, too. We’ve been doin’ the sport racket down yonder, an’ I reckon the sports hev done us, eh, pards?” His “pards” having acquiesced, my brawny friend cut off a huge chew of “nigger heel,” stowed it away in his capacious cheek, and after a few preliminary expectorations that resembled geysers, continued:

“If it hadn’t been fer ole Tom McDougal up thar on the box, we’d a took Walker’s line back ter our claims”--and the big miner glanced gratefully in the direction of the generous Mr. McDougal.

“And now that I have found that you are to be my fellow townsmen,” I said pleasantly, “permit me to remind you that the introduction has been one-sided. What are your names, may I ask?”

The miner winked at his companions, laughed a little deep down in his huge red beard, and replied:

“D--d if I didn’t fergit that ther was two sides to the interdoocin’ bizness. Ye see, stranger, we aint payin’ much attention ter feller’s handles in the mines. Most enny ole thing’ll do fer a name. That’s why we sometimes fergits our manners. This yere gang is purty well supplied with names, but ye mightn’t hev sich good luck ev’ry time, ’specially in Tuolumne county, eh, pards?”

His “pards” having again nodded and winked their approval, my brawny friend proceeded with his introductions.

“I’m called in the diggin’s by sev’ral names an’ y’u kin do like the rest uv my fren’s--take yer pick. I’m mostly known as Big Brown, tho’ some folks calls me Big Sandy. When I was in the states, I b’lieve they used to call me Daniel W. Brown, but I wouldn’t swar to it. This feller nex’ ter me hyar, is the hon’able Mr. Dixie,’ or Snub-nose Dixie fer short, who aint never hed much ter say about his other name, if he ever had enny, eh, Dixie? That lantern-jawed cuss a settin’ long side uv y’u, is Deacon Jersey, utherwise an’ more favor’bly known ez Link Spears. We calls him Deacon, cuz he never was inside of a church in his hull life. He’s the only genooine deacon this side of the Sierras. Thar aint none uv the hypercrit’ erbout him, neither, I kin tell ye. Ye’ll find us fellers’ tastes kinder runs erlike, f’r instance,”--and Big Brown looked longingly in the direction of my “pistol” pocket.

“In the matter of thirst,” I suggested.

“Right y’u air, Doc! I kin see yer goin ter be a valooable addition to our diggin’s. We need a doctor ez kin tell whut’s the matter with a feller ’thout cuttin’ him wide open. Ye see, we likes ter keep our own han’s in, an’ don’t calkerlate ter leave much of the cuttin’ ter the doctor--ennyhow, ’till we’ve had our little innin’s, eh, boys?”

Once again the boys agreed, with, I thought, just a slight suspicion of gratified vanity in their expressions.

It was a long weary way to Jacksonville, but my time was well spent. Thanks to the kindness and garrulity of my new-found yet none the less sincere, friends, and the confidence engendered by my rapidly diminishing supply of stimulants, I found myself, by the time I arrived at my destination, fairly well acquainted with the town, its ways and its citizens.

Jacksonville, at the time I landed in the then thriving place, was one of the most noted mining centers in the placer country. Its location was most picturesque. Nestled among the foot-hills of the glorious Sierras on the banks of the Tuolumne river, and peopled by as cosmopolitan and heterogeneous a population as was ever gathered within the confines of one small town, my new home was attractive because of its novelty, if nothing more.

Ages and ages of alternately falling and receding waters, centuries of snow and enormous rainfalls, had washed down from the mountains into the valley of the Tuolumne, those auriferous particles, the great abundance of which had made Jacksonville spring into busy life and thriving prosperity, almost in a single day.

But the very elements which had laid the alluring foundation of the valley’s wealth, were even then conspiring to avenge the rifling of the rich deposits of the valley by the irreverent hands of the modern Argonauts.

The Tuolumne river was a variable stream. During the dry season, it was but a thin, disjointed, silvery ribbon, across which one could walk dry-shod, in places. But in the early spring, the little stream at which the wayfarer was wont to laugh, and in whose bed the eager miner delved with impunity and profit, took revenge upon the disturbers of its ancient course. It became a raging torrent, resistlessly carrying all before it and sometimes severely punishing for his temerity the unwary miner who had pitched his tent or built his rude cabin too near the river bank. But all the revenge which the Tuolumne had taken in all the years since the settlement of the valley, was as nothing to that which was yet to come. That vale of thrift, industry and smiling prosperity was destined to become a valley of death, destruction, desolation and ruin.

But were not Pompeii and Herculaneum, and in later days, our own San Francisco, joyful and unsuspecting to the last? And why should the people of Tuolumne dread a danger of which familiarity and fancied security had made them forgetful, or possibly even contemptuous. The average citizen of Jacksonville could calmly face death in a material form, and why should he concern himself with that which passed by upon the other side with each succeeding spring?

By no means the least attractive feature of Jacksonville was the rugged self-confidence and honesty of the majority of its people. Even the Chinese, who composed a large part of the population, seemed to be a better variety of the almond-eyed heathen than I had supposed could possibly exist. The hair-triggered sensibility and powder-and-ball ethics of the dominant race seemed to be most effective civilizers.

I am far from claiming that Jacksonville presented an ideal state of civilization, but this I do say, in justice to my old town; life and property were safer there than they are to-day in many more pretentious communities, that claim to rank as centers from which civilization radiates like the rays of a star. A sense of personal responsibility made the French the politest nation on the face of the earth; it was the foundation upon which the spirit of the “Old South” was builded firmer than a rock; it was the soul that beat back the furious waves of shot and shell that so often hailed upon the southern chivalry on many a hard fought field. A similar spirit of self-assertion and personal responsibility pervaded the Tuolumne valley, and raised its average moral standard to a height far beyond that of many a metropolis of a more vicious and effete civilization.

Warm-hearted, impulsive, honest, courageous, fiery-tempered, quick-triggered Argonauts of the Tuolumne valley--a health to those of you who still live, and peace to those who have laid down the pick and pan forever and have inspected their sluice-boxes for the last time! When the final “clean-up” comes, may the “find” be full of nuggets--“sixteen dollars to the ounce.”

There was no better opportunity of becoming intimately acquainted with the town of Jacksonville, its people and its customs, than was afforded by the Tuolumne House, where I made my headquarters. There may be better hotels in the world than that primitive one, but it had outgrown its canvas period and had become a pretentious frame structure, and this fact alone made it famous. It had no rival, for the old “Empire,” so long presided over by that honest, sturdy old Scot, Rob McCoun, had long since been converted into a Chinese grocery, while its erstwhile owner had been dead for several years. As for the only other hotel, McGinnis, its proprietor, had never been in the race since his cook, one unlucky day, brewed the coffee and tea simultaneously in the same pot. The hundred and seventy-odd boarders who fed at McGinnis’ “festive” rack were not to be consoled--they “quit him cold” and went over to the enemy. Tradition says that “Mac.” half killed the luckless cook, one Mike Corcoran, “Fer puttin’ coffee in the tay pot, ther d--d scoundrel!” but the boarders were not to be placated.[A] My fellow citizens of Jacksonville were very particular, and quite sensitive, with respect to the quality and quantity of liquids that entered their stomachs.

[A] Axin’ Mr. McGinnis’ pardon--if he be still living.--Author.