CHAPTER I
The time was 1850, the place that long, soft, hot dry stretch of blasteddesolation known as the Humboldt Sink. The sun stared, the heat rose inwaves, the mirage shimmered, the dust devils of choking alkali whirledaloft or sank in suffocation on the hot earth. Thus it had been since inremote ages the last drop of the inland sea had risen into a brazen sky.But this year had brought something new. A track now led across thedesert. It had sunk deep into the alkali, and the soft edges had closedover it like snow, so that the wheel marks and the hoof marks and theprints of men's feet looked old. Almost in a straight line it led to thewest. Its perspective, dwindling to nothingness, corrected the deceit ofthe clear air. Without it the cool, tall mountains looked very near. Butwhen the eye followed the trail to its vanishing, then, as though bymagic, the Ranges drew back, and before them denied dreadful forces oftoil, thirst, exhaustion, and despair. For the trail was marked. If thewheel ruts had been obliterated, it could still have been easilyfollowed. Abandoned goods, furniture, stores, broken-down wagons,bloated carcasses of oxen or horses, bones bleached white, rattlingmummies of dried skin, and an almost unbroken line of marked andunmarked graves--like the rout of an army, like the spent wash of a wavethat had rolled westward--these in double rank defined the road.
The buzzards sailing aloft looked down on the Humboldt Sink as we wouldlook upon a relief map. Near the centre of the map a tiny cloud of whitedust crawled slowly forward. The buzzards stooped to poise above it.
Two ox wagons plodded along. A squirrel--were such a creaturepossible--would have stirred disproportionately the light alkali dust;the two heavy wagons and the shuffling feet of the beasts raised acloud. The fitful furnace draught carried this along at the slow pace ofthe caravan, which could be seen only dimly, as through a dense fog.
The oxen were in distress. Evidently weakened by starvation, they wereproceeding only with the greatest difficulty. Their tongues were out,their legs spread, spasmodically their eyes rolled back to show thewhites, from time to time one or another of them uttered a strangled,moaning bellow. They were white with the powdery dust, as were theiryokes, the wagons, and the men who plodded doggedly alongside. Finally,they stopped. The dust eddied by; and the blasting sun fell upon them.
The driver of the leading team motioned to the other. They huddled inthe scanty shade alongside the first wagon. Both men were so powderedand caked with alkali that their features were indistinguishable. Theirred-rimmed, inflamed eyes looked out as though from masks.
The one who had been bringing up the rear looked despairingly toward themountains.
"We'll never get there!" he cried.
"Not the way we are now," replied the other. "But I intend to getthere."
"How?"
"Leave your wagon, Jim; it's the heaviest. Put your team on here."
"But my wagon is all I've got in the world!" cried the other, "and we'vegot near a keg of water yet! We can make it! The oxen are pulling allright!"
His companion turned away with a shrug, then thought better of it andturned back.
"We've thrown out all we owned except bare necessities," he explained,patiently. "Your wagon is too heavy. The time to change is while thebeasts can still pull."
"But I refuse!" cried the other. "I won't do it. Go ahead with yourwagon. I'll get mine in, John Gates, you can't bulldoze me."
Gates stared him in the eye.
"Get the pail," he requested, mildly.
He drew water from one of the kegs slung underneath the wagon's body.The oxen, smelling it, strained weakly, bellowing. Gates slowly andcarefully swabbed out their mouths, permitted them each a few swallows,rubbed them pityingly between the horns. Then he proceeded to unyoke thefour beasts from the other man's wagon and yoked them to his own. Jimstarted to say something. Gates faced him. Nothing was said.
"Get your kit," Gates commanded, briefly, after a few moments. He partedthe hanging canvas and looked into the wagon. Built to transport muchfreight it was nearly empty. A young woman lay on a bed spread along thewagon bottom. She seemed very weak.
"All right, honey?" asked Gates, gently.
She stirred, and achieved a faint smile.
"It's terribly hot. The sun strikes through," she replied. "Can't we letsome air in?"
"The dust would smother you."
"Are we nearly there?"
"Getting on farther every minute," he replied, cheerfully.
Again the smothering alkali rose and the dust cloud crawled.
Four hours later the traveller called Jim collapsed face downward. Theoxen stopped. Gates lifted the man by the shoulders. So exhausted was hethat he had not the strength nor energy to spit forth the alkali withwhich his fall had caked his open mouth. Gates had recourse to thewater keg. After a little he hoisted his companion to the front seat.
At intervals thereafter the lone human figure spoke the single word thatbrought his team to an instantaneous dead stop. His first care was thenthe woman, next the man clinging to the front seat, then the oxen.Before starting he clambered to the top of the wagon and cast a long,calculating look across the desolation ahead. Twice he even furtherreduced the meagre contents of the wagon, appraising each article longand doubtfully before discarding it. About mid-afternoon he saidabruptly:
"Jim, you've got to walk."
The man demurred weakly, with a touch of panic.
"Every ounce counts. It's going to be a close shave. You can hang on tothe tail of the wagon."
Yet an hour later Jim, for the fourth time, fell face downward, but nowdid not rise. Gates, going to him, laid his hand on his head, pushedback one of his eyelids, then knelt for a full half minute, staringstraight ahead. Once he made a tentative motion toward the nearly emptywater keg, once he started to raise the man's shoulders. The movementswere inhibited. A brief agony cracked the mask of alkali on hiscountenance. Then stolidly, wearily, he arose. The wagon lurchedforward. After it had gone a hundred yards and was well under way in itspainful forward crawl, Gates, his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes fixed andglazed, drew the revolver from its holster and went back.
At sundown he began to use the gad. The oxen were trying to lie down.If one of them succeeded, it would never again arise. Gates knew this.He plied the long, heavy whip in both hands. Where the lash fell it bitout strips of hide. It was characteristic of the man that thoughheretofore he had not in all this day inflicted a single blow on thesuffering animals, though his nostrils widened and his terrible red eyeslooked for pity toward the skies, yet now he swung mercilessly with allhis strength.
Dusk fell, but the hot earth still radiated, the powder dust rose andchoked. The desert dragged at their feet; and in the twilight John Gatesthought to hear mutterings and the soft sound of wings overhead as thedread spirits of the wastes stooped low. He had not stopped for nearlytwo hours. This was the last push; he must go straight through or fail.
And when the gleam of the river answered the gleam of the starlight hehad again to rouse his drained energies. By the brake, by directing thewagon into an obstruction, by voice and whip he fought the franticbeasts back to a moaning standstill. Then pail by pail he fed them thewater until the danger of overdrinking was past. He parted the curtains.In spite of the noise outside the woman, soothed by the breath of coolerair, had fallen asleep.
Some time later he again parted the curtains.
"We're here, honey," he said, "good water, good grass, shade. The desertis past. Wake up and take a little coffee."
She smiled at him.
"I'm so tired."
"We're going to rest here a spell."
She drank the coffee, ate some of the food he brought her, thrust backher hair, breathed deep of the cooling night.
"Where's Jim?" she asked at last.
"Jim got very tired," he said, "Jim's asleep."
* * * * *
Three months later. The western slant of the Sierras just where thecanon clefts begin to spread into foothills. On a flat near--toonear--the stre
am-bed was a typical placer-mining camp of the day. Thatis, three or four large, rough buildings in a row, twenty or thirty logcabins scattered without order, and as many tents.
The whole population was gathered interestedly in the largest structure,which was primarily a dance hall. Ninety-five per cent. were men, ofwhom the majority were young men. A year ago the percentage would havebeen nearer one hundred, but now a certain small coterie of women haddrifted in, most of them with a keen eye for prosperity. The red or blueshirt, the nondescript hat, and the high, mud-caked boots of the minerpreponderated. Here and there in the crowd, however, stood a man dressedin the height of fashion. There seemed no middle ground. These latterwere either the professional gamblers, the lawyers, or the promoters.
A trial was in progress, to which all paid deep attention. Two mendisputed the ownership of a certain claim. Their causes were representedby ornate individuals whose evident zest in the legal battle was notmeasured by prospective fees. Nowhere in the domain and at no time inthe history of the law has technicality been so valued, has the game ofthe courts possessed such intellectual interest, has substantialjustice been so uncertain as in the California of the early 'fifties.The lawyer could spread himself unhampered; and these were so doing.
In the height of the proceedings a man entered from outside and took hisposition leaning against the rail of the jury box. That he was astranger was evident from the glances of curiosity, cast in hisdirection. He was tall, strong, young, bearded, with a roving, humorousbold eye.
The last word was spoken. A rather bewildered-looking jury filed out.Ensued a wait. The jury came back. It could not agree; it wantedinformation. Both lawyers supplied it in abundance. The foreman, whohappened to be next the rail against which the newcomer was leaning,cast on him a quizzical eye.
"Stranger," said he, "mout you be able to make head er tail of all thatair?"
The other shook his head.
"I'm plumb distracted to know what to do; and dear knows we all want togit shet of this job. Thar's a badger fight----"
"Where is this claim, anyway?"
"Right adown the road. Location notice is on the first white oak youcome to. Cain't miss her."
"If I were you," said the stranger after a pause, "I'd just declare theclaim vacant. Then neither side would win."
At this moment the jury rose to retire again. The stranger unobtrusivelygained the attention of the clerk and from him begged a sheet of paper.On this he wrote rapidly, then folded it, and moved to the outer door,against the jamb of which he took his position. After another andshorter wait, the jury returned.
"Have you agreed on your verdict, gentlemen?" inquired the judge.
"We have," replied the lank foreman. "We award that the claim belongs toneither and be declared vacant."
At the words the stranger in the doorway disappeared. Two minutes laterthe advance guard of the rush that had comprehended the true meaning ofthe verdict found the white oak tree in possession of a competentindividual with a Colt's revolving pistol and a humorous eye.
"My location notice, gentlemen," he said, calling attention to a paperfreshly attached by wooden pegs.
"Honey-bug claim'," they read, "'John Gates'," and the usualphraseology.
"But this is a swindle, an outrage!" cried one of the erstwhile owners.
"If so it was perpetrated by your own courts," said Gates, crisply. "Iam within my rights, and I propose to defend them."
Thus John Gates and his wife, now strong and hearty, became members ofthis community. His intention had been to proceed to Sacramento. Anincident stopped him here.
The Honey-bug claim might or might not be a good placer mine--time wouldshow--but it was certainly a wonderful location. Below the sloping benchon which it stood the country fell away into the brown heat haze of thelowlands, a curtain that could lift before a north wind to reveal alandscape magnificent as a kingdom. Spreading white oaks gave shade, aspring sang from the side hill on which grew lofty pines, and back tothe east rose the dark or glittering Sierras. The meadow at the back wasgay with mariposa lilies, melodious with bees and birds, aromatic withthe mingled essences of tarweed, lads-love, and the pines. At this happyelevation the sun lay warm and caressing, but the air tasted cool.
"I could love this," said the woman.
"You'll have a chance," said John Gates, "for when we've made our pile,we'll always keep this to come back to."
At first they lived in the wagon, which they drew up under one of thetrees, while the oxen recuperated and grew fat on the abundant grasses.Then in spare moments John Gates began the construction of a house. Hewas a man of tremendous energy, but also of many activities. The dayswere not long enough for him. In him was the true ferment ofconstructive civilization. Instinctively he reached out to modify hissurroundings. A house, then a picket fence, split from the living trees;an irrigation ditch; a garden spot; fruit trees; vines over the porch;better stables; more fences; the gradual shaping from the wilderness ofa home--these absorbed his surplus. As a matter of business he workedwith pick and shovel until he had proved the Honey-bug hopeless, then hestarted a store on credit. Therein he sold everything from hats to 42calibre whiskey. To it he brought the same overflowing play-spirit thathad fashioned his home.
"I'm making a very good living," he answered a question; "that is, ifI'm not particular on how well I live," and he laughed his huge laugh.
He was very popular. Shortly they elected him sheriff. He gained thishigh office fundamentally, of course, by reason of his courage anddecision of character; but the immediate and visible causes were theEpisode of the Frazzled Mule, and the Episode of the Frying Pan. The oneinspired respect; the other amusement.
The freight company used many pack and draught animals. One day one ofits mules died. The _mozo_ in charge of the corrals dragged the carcassto the superintendent's office. That individual cursed twice; once atthe mule for dying, and once at the _mozo_ for being a fool. Atnightfall another mule died. This time the _mozo_, mindful of hisberating, did not deliver the body, but conducted the superintendent tosee the sad remains.
"Bury it," ordered the superintendent, disgustedly. Two mules at$350--quite a loss.
But next morning another had died; fairly an epidemic among mules. Thiscarcass also was ordered buried. And at noon a fourth. Thesuperintendent, on his way to view the defunct, ran across John Gates.
"Look here, John," queried he, "do you know anything about mules?"
"Considerable," admitted Gates.
"Well, come see if you can tell me what's killing ours off."
They contemplated the latest victim of the epidemic.
"Seems to be something that swells them up," ventured the superintendentafter a while.
John Gates said nothing for some time. Then suddenly he snatched hispistol and levelled it at the shrinking _mozo_.
"Produce those three mules!" he roared, "_mucho pronto_, too!" To thebewildered superintendent he explained. "Don't you see? this is the sameold original mule. He ain't never been buried at all. They've beenstealing your animals pretending they died, and using this one over andover as proof!"
This proved to be the case; but John Gates was clever enough never totell how he surmised the truth.
"That mule looked to me pretty frazzled," was all he would say.
The frying-pan episode was the sequence of a quarrel. Gates was bringinghome a new frying pan. At the proper point in the discussion he used hisgreat strength to smash the implement over his opponent's head sovigorously that it came down around his neck like a jagged collar! Gatesclung to the handle, however, and by it led his man all around camp, tothe huge delight of the populace.
As sheriff he was effective, but at times peculiar in hisadministration. No man could have been more zealous in performing hisduty; yet he never would mix in the affairs of foreigners. Invariably insuch cases he made out the warrants in blank, swore in the complainingparties themselves as deputies, and told them blandly to do their ownarresting! Nor at times did he
fail to temper his duty with a littlesubstantial justice of his own. Thus he was once called upon to executea judgment for $30 against a poor family. Gates went down to thepremises, looked over the situation, talked to the man--apoverty-stricken, discouraged, ague-shaken creature--and marched back tothe offices of the plaintiffs in the case.
"Here," said he, calmly, laying a paper and a small bag of gold dust ontheir table, "is $30 and a receipt in full."
The complainant reached for the sack. Gates placed his hand over it.
"Sign the receipt," he commanded. "Now," he went on after the ink hadbeen sanded, "there's your $30. It's yours legally; and you can take itif you want to. But I want to warn you that a thousand-dollar lickinggoes with it!"
The money--from Gates's own pocket--eventually found its way to the poorfamily!
They had three children, two boys and a girl of which one boy died.
In five years the placers began to play out. One by one the moreenergetic of the miners dropped away. The nature of the communitychanged. Small hill ranches or fruit farms took the place of the mines.The camp became a country village. Old time excitement calmed, the paceof life slowed, the horizon narrowed.
John Gates, clear-eyed, energetic, keen brained, saw this tendencybefore it became a fact.
"This camp is busted," he told himself.
It was the hour to fulfill the purpose of the long, terrible journeyacross the plains, to carry out the original intention to descend fromthe Sierras to the golden valleys, to follow the struggle.
"Reckon it's time to be moving," he told his wife.
But now his own great labours asserted their claim. He had put fouryears of his life into making this farm out of nothing, four years ofincredible toil, energy, and young enthusiasm. He had a good dwellingand spacious corrals, an orchard started, a truck garden, a barleyfield, a pasture, cattle, sheep, chickens, his horses--all his creationfrom nothing. One evening at sundown he found his wife in the gardenweeping softly.
"What is it, honey?" he asked.
"I was just thinking how we'd miss the garden," she replied.
He looked about at the bright, cheerful flowers, the vine-hung picketfence, the cool verandah, the shady fig tree already of some size.Everything was neat and trim, just as he liked it. And the tinkle ofpleasant waters, the song of a meadow lark, the distant mellow lowing ofcows came to his ears; the smell of tarweed and of pines mingled in hisnostrils.
"It's a good place for children," he said, vaguely.
Neither knew it, but that little speech marked the ebb of the wave thathad lifted him from his eastern home, had urged him across the plains,had flung him in the almost insolent triumph of his youth high towardthe sun. Now the wash receded.
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