Digging for Gold

“You’d ought to have given it to me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where’s the other dollar?”

“It’s in my vest pocket.”

Seth Tarbox thrust his fingers into the pocket of Grant’s vest, and drew out two silver half-dollars. It was better than nothing, but he felt disappointed.

“I’ll take this,” he said, “to pay for your time.”

“You are welcome to it, but don’t you think you could spare me one half-dollar?” asked Grant meekly.

“When you’ve gone and spent twenty for a suit? No, I guess not. You can think yourself pretty lucky to get as much as you did.”

Seth Tarbox took the candle, and went slowly down stairs. Grant was so much amused by the way in which he had outwitted his step-father that he laughed loud enough for Mr. Tarbox to hear.

“That’s a queer boy,” said Tarbox to himself. “I don’t think he’s exactly right in his head. I’d ought to have got more than one dollar out of all the money the passengers raised for him; but still it’s something.”

When Grant came down stairs to breakfast the next morning he looked very cheerful, in spite of losing his money the night before, and laughed two or three times, without any apparent reason for doing so. Mr. Tarbox had suggested to his wife the propriety of giving up to him half the money she had received from Grant, but Mrs. Tarbox, yielding as she generally was, had positively refused. Indeed, Grant had made her promise to do so.

Grant’s new suit was finished in time for him to wear it on Sunday. He had great satisfaction in entering the village church decently clothed. Indeed, he felt that he was as well dressed as any boy in town, and this was for him a decidedly new sensation.

Grant had one hundred and twenty-seven dollars left in the hands of Luke Weldon. He withdrew ten dollars, and bought some shirts and underclothing. This did not come to the notice of Mr. Tarbox, who was under the impression that Grant’s stock of money was exhausted. Had he known the truth, he would have moved heaven and earth to get hold of the balance of Grant’s little fortune.

Grant was anxious to see John Heywood, the returned Californian. He was more than ever determined to leave the service of his step-father, and make a bold stroke for a fortune. All day he thought of the Golden State of the Pacific Coast, and all night he dreamed of it. For him it had the greatest fascination. The idea of wandering across the continent to this wonderful new land became strengthened, and he felt that, with the sum he had at command, he would be able to do it. He spoke of it to his mother privately, and, though it made her feel anxious, he succeeded in persuading her that it would be for the best.

But he could do nothing without seeing John Heywood, and getting more information. He thought of going to Crestville, and accordingly, one morning after breakfast, he started without notifying Mr. Tarbox, and walked the whole distance – six miles.

Mr. Heywood lived half a mile this side of the village, and Grant had the luck to find him at home.

“Good-morning, Grant,” said the young man. “What brings you to Crestville so early?”

“I came to see you, Mr. Heywood.”

“You did? Well, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you come into the house?”

“No, I’ll sit down here,” and Grant took a seat on a wood horse, while Heywood leaned against the well curb, and waited for his young visitor to open his business.

“I hear you have been very lucky in California, Mr. Heywood.”

“Yes,” answered the young man, with complacency. “I brought home ten thousand dollars. It makes me feel like a rich man. I’m only twenty-nine, and I didn’t look to be worth that sum before I was sixty-nine. A clear gain of forty years!” he added with a laugh.

“You got it by digging gold, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose there’s more gold in California? You didn’t take it all?”

“I should say not. There’s piles, and piles of it left.”

“Is digging gold very hard work? Is it too hard for a boy?”

“You don’t mean to say you’re thinkin’ of goin’ to California yourself?” said Heywood quickly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, you’re a good, stout boy. I don’t see why you should not succeed. But you’ll have to work hard.”

“I am willing to.”

“What will your folks say?”

“Mother has given her consent. As for Mr. Tarbox, my step-father, he hasn’t got anything to say about it.”

“You are working for him now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m working for my board and clothes. The board is fair enough, but he is not willing to give me any clothes.”

“That’s a nice suit you have on.”

“So it is, but I had to buy it with my own money. He hasn’t spent but ten dollars for my clothing in a whole year.”

“I’ve heard he was a mean man.”

“He thinks everything of a dollar. Mother made a great mistake in marrying him.”

“Then, under the circumstances, Grant, I don’t know as I blame you. But, you know, it takes money to go to California.”

“I know that. How much did it cost you?”

“I went across the plains. By the time I reached the mines I had spent about ninety dollars.”

“Ninety dollars!” repeated Grant in a tone of satisfaction. “But how am I to go, even if I have the money. I can’t start across the plains alone.”

“No, of course not. It’s always better to have a little company. There’s a family goin’ from this town in about a week – Mr. Cooper’s family. I am sure they will be willing to have you go with them. Shall I speak to them about it?”

“Yes, I wish you would.”

Much pleased, Grant set out on his long walk home. He found his step-father furious at his absence.

“Where have you been, Grant?” he demanded.

“Over to Crestville.”

“You’ve taken ’most a day of my time. It’s a shame! I can’t afford to take care of you, and give you victuals and clothes, when you’re playin’ truant half the time.”

“I don’t expect you to, Mr. Tarbox. I don’t want you to lose money by me,” said Grant demurely, “so I’ve made up my mind to leave you.”

“To leave me?” ejaculated Seth Tarbox, aghast. “Where are you goin’?”

“I’m going to California!”

Seth Tarbox dropped the hoe he had in his hand, and stared at Grant as though the boy had taken leave of his senses.

CHAPTER VIII

ALL IS SETTLED

“Goin’ to Californy!” ejaculated Mr. Tarbox in a dazed tone.

“Yes. I’ve seen John Heywood – that’s what I went to Crestville for – and he tells me there’s a chance for a boy to make money out there.”

“Goin’ to walk, I s’pose,” said Seth satirically.

“I’m going across the plains, if that’s what you mean.”

“Where are you goin’ to get the money? It will cost a good deal.”

“I have made arrangements about the money.”

“Is John Heywood goin’ to supply you with funds?”

“I’d rather not tell,” answered Grant mysteriously. He was glad that this idea had occurred to his step-father, as he did not wish him to know that he had any funds of his own.

“I don’t know as I’ll let you go,” went on Seth Tarbox slowly.

“What right have you to stop me?” demanded Grant, not very much alarmed.

“I’m your step-father.”

“Yes; but you’re not my guardian.”

“Mind, I don’t say I’ll stop you,” said Seth, for an idea had occurred to him whereby he might turn the expedition to his own advantage. Should Grant bring back a good sum of money, he meant to get control of it, and thought he should succeed on account of the boy’s being so young.

“No, Mr. Tarbox, it wouldn’t be any use.”

“Does John Heywood really think you can make it pay?”

“He says there’s piles of gold there.”

“Piles of gold!” repeated Seth Tarbox, an expression of greed stealing over his face.

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“I wish I was a young man. I ain’t sure but I’d go myself. But I’m sixty-eight.”

“That’s a little too old to go.”

“If you are prosperous, Grant, take care of your money and bring it all home. We’ll be glad to see you back safe and prosperous, your mother and me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tarbox.”

This conversation relieved Grant’s mind. Even if Mr. Tarbox were opposed to his going, he meant to go all the same, but it was pleasanter to have no trouble in the matter.

The next day he went to Crestville again, this time to see Jerry Cooper, as everybody called him, and his son Tom, and ascertain whether they were willing that he should join their party.

Mr. Cooper, a weather-beaten man of fifty, was at work in his yard when Grant came up. Grant knew him by sight, and bade him good-morning.

“Has John Heywood spoken to you about me?” he asked.

“Yes. You’re the boy that wants to go to Californy with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You look kind of rugged; I guess you can stand it,” said the blacksmith, surveying critically Grant’s broad shoulders and athletic frame.

“Yes, Mr. Cooper; I’m not a city dude. I’ve always been accustomed to hard work.”

“That’s good. There’s a good deal of hard work in goin’ across the plains.”

“How long do you think it will take to make the journey?”

“About four months.”

“It will give us a good chance to see the country – ”

“That ain’t what I’m goin’ for. When you get to be fifty years old you won’t care much about seein’ the country. You will be more practical.”

“I shall try to be practical,” said Grant, with a smile.

“It’s my belief we shall see more of the country than we care for. I wish it wasn’t so fur.”

“So do I. Some time there may be a railroad across the continent.”

Mr. Cooper shook his head.

“I never expect to see that,” he said. “It wouldn’t pay. You’re a boy, and by the time you get to be an old man there may be a railroad, but I doubt it.”

“When do you expect to start, Mr. Cooper?”

“Next Thursday. Can you be ready?”

“I could be ready to-morrow if necessary,” returned Grant promptly. “How much is it going to cost me, Mr. Cooper?” he added. “If you will tell me, I can give you the money in a lump, and you can undertake to see me through.”

“Mebbe that will be a good plan, as I shall have to lay in more supplies. We’ll say seventy-five dollars; and it will be well for you to bring a pair of blankets.”

“All right. I will give you the money now if you will give me a paper acknowledging the receipt, and what it is for.”

“Just as you say, Grant.”

Grant had brought a hundred dollars with him, and handed over to Jerry Cooper the sum he had mentioned, receiving back a receipt. This he put into his pocket with a sense of satisfaction. He felt that now the die was cast, and he was really bound for California; that he had taken the first step on the road to fortune.

On his way home he chanced to meet Rodney Bartlett. Rodney was walking with an affected step and swinging his cane. He had an idea that he was a striking figure and excited the admiration of all whom he met.

When his eyes fell on Grant, he started in genuine surprise.

“How do you happen to be over here, Grant Colburn?” he asked.

“I am here on business,” answered Grant.

“Oh, come over on an errand for my grandfather, I suppose.”

“No, I came on business of my own.”

Rodney arched his eyebrows.

“Oh, so you have business of your own?” he said, in a ironical tone.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t think you would feel interested in it.”

“Look here, Grant, I don’t believe you have any business here at all,” said Rodney rudely.

“It makes little difference to me what you think,” returned Grant briefly.

“I think you are playing truant from the farm – that you have come over here to get rid of work. If I were grandfather I wouldn’t let you come. I’d keep you at work.”

“You are very kind and considerate, as usual, Rodney. However, you are mistaken in one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You think I am in the employ of your grandfather.”

“I know you are a farm boy.”

“I was, but am so no longer.”

“What do you mean? Has grandfather discharged you?”

“No, I have discharged myself. I don’t expect to work for your grandfather any longer.”

“What are you going to do? Do you expect to live without work?”

“No; I expect to work harder next year than ever before.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Rodney, puzzled. “Are you trying to fool me?”

“No.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I start next Thursday for California.”

Rodney was surprised.

“You – don’t – mean – it!” he ejaculated.

“It’s true.”

“Who are you going with?”

“With Jerry Cooper’s family.”

“But you can’t go without money.”

“That’s true.”

“And you haven’t got any.”

“That’s a mistake. I have all I need.”

“Where did you get it?”

“That’s my business.”

“Who put you up to going?”

“I had a talk with John Heywood. He told me he thought I would succeed in making money.”

“Oh, I see. I suppose he was fool enough to lend you the money.”

Grant smiled, but did not answer. This confirmed Rodney in his belief. He looked at Grant with envy and dislike. With the amiable desire to depress him, he said, “I predict that you’ll come back poorer than you went away.”

“It may be so, but I don’t believe it.”

When he parted with Grant, Rodney went around to John Heywood’s house, with the view of ascertaining whether he had supplied Grant with the funds necessary for his journey.

“I think you are foolish, Mr. Heywood,” Rodney began, “to lend Grant Colburn money to go to California.”

John Heywood looked up from his work.

“Who told you I had supplied him with money?” he asked.

“Well, no one.”

“Then why do you say I did?”

“He must have got the money somewhere, so I concluded you had let him have it.”

“Then you concluded wrong. He never asked me to lend him money. If he had – ”

“Well, if he had?” repeated Rodney eagerly.

“If he had, I should probably have done it. Grant Colburn’s a hardworking boy and a good fellow, and I think he’ll be happier out in California than on your grandfather’s farm.”

“It’ll be a relief to grandfather to have him go. He’s been supporting him for the last two years.”

“Grant has earned his living twice over. He’ll have to work hard in California, but he’ll be paid for it. I shouldn’t be surprised to see him a rich man some time.”

Rodney scowled and walked away. He thought the prediction ridiculous, and hoped it would not come true.

CHAPTER IX

THE LONG JOURNEY BEGINS

The day before they were to start Grant came over and spent the night with Mr. Cooper and his family. The blacksmith had been guided by John Heywood in making his preparations. Independence, Mo., was at that time the usual starting-point for overland emigrants, and it was to this point that the little party directed their course. Mr. Cooper started with two horses, but at Independence he exchanged one of them for a yoke of oxen, being advised that oxen were upon the whole more reliable, and less likely to be stolen by the Indians. Here, too, he laid in a supply of flour, bacon, coffee, and sugar, with a quantity of rice, crackers, and smaller articles, for they were going through a land where there were no hotels, and must carry their own provender.

When they had completed their outfit they set out. A long journey lay before them. From Independence to the gold region was rather more than two thousand miles, and such were the difficulties of the way that they only averaged about fifteen miles a day. A detailed account of the trip would only be wearisome, and I shall confine myself to some of the salient incidents.

The custom was to make an early start and stop at intervals, partly for the preparation of meals and partly to give the patient animals a chance to rest.

One evening – it was about ten weeks after the start – they had encamped for the night, and Mrs. Cooper, assisted by Grant, was preparing supper, a fire having been kindled about fifty feet from the wagon, when steps were heard, and a singular looking figure emerged from the underbush. It was a man, with a long, grizzled beard, clad in a tattered garb, with an old slouch hat on his head, and a long, melancholy visage.

“I trust you are well, my friends,” he said. “Do not be alarmed. I mean you no harm.”

Tom Cooper laughed.

“We are not alarmed,” he said. “That is, not much. Who are you?”

“An unhappy wayfarer, who has been wandering for days, almost famished, through this wilderness.”

“Do you live about here?”

“No; I am on my way to California.”

“Not alone, surely?”

“I started with a party, but we were surprised a week since by a party of Cheyenne Indians, and I alone escaped destruction.”

Mrs. Cooper turned pale.

“Are the Indians so bloodthirsty, then?”

“Some of them, my dear lady, some of them. They took all our supplies, and I have been living on what I could pick up. Pardon my saying so, but I am almost famished.”

“Our supper is nearly ready,” said Mrs. Cooper hospitably. “You are welcome to a portion.”

“Ah, how kind you are!” ejaculated the stranger, clasping his hands. “I shall, indeed, be glad to join you.”

“What is your name, sir?” asked the blacksmith cautiously.

“Dionysius Silverthorn.”

“That’s a strange name.”

“Yes, but I am not responsible for it. We do not choose our own names.”

“And where are you from?”

“I came from Illinois.”

“Were you in business there?”

“Yes. Ahem! I was a teacher, but my health gave way, and when I heard of the rich discoveries of gold in California, I gathered up, with difficulty, money enough for the journey and started; but, alas! I did not anticipate the sad disaster that has befallen me.”

Mr. Silverthorn was thin and meager, but when supper was ready he ate nearly twice as much as any of the little party.

“Who is this young man?” he asked, with a glance at Grant.

“My name is Grant Colburn.”

“You are the image of a boy I lost,” sighed Dionysius. “He was strong and manly, like you – a very engaging youth.”

“Then he couldn’t have looked like you,” was Tom Cooper’s inward comment.

“Did he die of disease?” asked Mrs. Cooper.

“Yes; he had the typhoid fever – my poor, poor Otto,” and Mr. Silverthorn wiped his eyes with a dirty red silk handkerchief. “Have you a father living, my young friend?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it would be a gratification to me if you would look upon me as a parent.”

Grant was quite overwhelmed by this unexpected suggestion.

“Thank you, sir,” he said; “but you are a stranger, and I have a step-father living.”

He said this on the impulse of the moment, as a reason for not acceding to Mr. Silverthorn’s request, but it occurred to him that it would be about as difficult to regard Mr. Tarbox with filial feelings as the newcomer.

“Ah, he is indeed fortunate!” sighed Mr. Silverthorn. He had a habit of sighing. “My friend” – here he addressed himself to the blacksmith – “do you ever smoke?”

“Yes, when I get the chance.”

“And have you, perchance, a cigar?”

“No; a cigar is too high-toned for me. I have a pipe.”

“That will do.”

“But I have no tobacco.”

“Ah!” Here there was another long-drawn sigh.

After supper they sat down around the fire, to rest and chat for a while before retiring.

“I suppose, my friends,” continued Dionysius, “you would be surprised if I should tell you that I was once wealthy.”

“You don’t look like it now,” said Tom Cooper bluntly.

“No; indeed I don’t. Yet six years ago I was worth fifty thousand dollars.”

“I shall be glad if I am worth as much six years hence.”

“How did you lose it?” asked Jerry Cooper.

“Through the knavery of wicked men. I was so honest myself that I supposed all with whom I had dealings were equally honorable, and I was deceived. But I am happy to think that when I was rich I contributed to every good work. I gave a thousand dollars to the church in my town. I gave five thousand dollars as a fund for a town library. All men spoke well of me, but when I lost my fortune all turned the cold shoulder, and I found I had no friends. It is the way of the world.”

“If you were a teacher I don’t see where you got so much money,” remarked Grant curiously.

“I didn’t make it by teaching, my young friend. An old uncle died and left me his money. He had been a miser, and never took any notice of me, so it was a great surprise to me when his will was read and I was constituted his sole heir.”

“I wish an old uncle would die and leave me fifty thousand dollars,” said Tom.

“Such may be your luck.”

“Not much chance of that. I haven’t got but one uncle living, and he’s as poor as Job after he lost all his flocks and herds.”

“I don’t complain of my unhappy condition,” said Dionysius meekly. “I have been rich and now I am poor, but I am resigned to the Lord’s will.”

“He seems to be a very good man,” whispered Mrs. Cooper to Tom.

Tom shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t take much stock in him,” he whispered back.

“How did you happen to escape when the rest of your party were destroyed by the Indians?” asked the blacksmith.

“The attack was made in the night. I had been unable to sleep, and I got up and went for a walk in the woods, hoping to become fatigued and drowsy. I was absent for an hour and a half, as well as I can estimate. When I returned to the camp, what was my dismay when I saw that my friends had been surprised, their goods confiscated, and a scene of violence enacted.”

“Were all killed?”

“I don’t know, but on the ground, by the dismantled tent, I saw a human arm which had been lopped from the shoulder.”

“Do you know whose it was?” asked Tom.

“Yes, it was the arm of a young man about your age, who doubtless had excited the anger of the Indians by resistance.”

Mr. Silverthorn put his red handkerchief to his eyes and sobbed, or appeared to do so, convulsively.

“Excuse these tears,” he said. “They are a tribute to my murdered friends.”

“Did you follow the Indians? Did you try to find out where they had carried your companions?”

“No. It would have been no good. I was single-handed.”

“I would have done it!” said Tom resolutely.

“I would expect it of you, for you are a brave young man.”

“How do you know I am?”

“By your looks and manner. I am not. You may despise me, but I am obliged to confess that I am chicken-hearted. I am afraid I am a coward. It is not a pleasant confession, but I do not wish to represent myself other than I am.”

“Then I am afraid that you are not the right kind of a man to cross the plains to California.”

“I am not sure but you are right. I sometimes think so myself. But I hoped to retrieve my fortunes, and in my state of health there seemed no other way open to me.”

“You haven’t had much encouragement yet?”

“No, but I feel that I am fortunate in meeting with your friendly party. And this emboldens me to make a request.”

“What is it?” asked the blacksmith.

“Will you let me travel with you? I am alone, quite alone. It would make me happy to be with you. The sight of that boy, who reminds me of my lost son, would be a daily source of happiness to me.”

Mr. Cooper hesitated, and the expression of his face showed that the proposal was distasteful to him.

“You can stay with us to-night,” he answered briefly. “I cannot promise more.”

CHAPTER X

MR. SILVERTHORN’S TREACHERY

The little party generally lay down to sleep soon after eight. The days were always fatiguing, and they were in the habit of rising early.

The weather was warm, for it was toward the end of June, and they did not even raise the tent, but lay down on the ground with a blanket underneath and above them. Mrs. Cooper generally slept in the wagon.

“We have an extra pair of blankets, Mr. Silverthorn,” said Mrs. Cooper. “We cannot offer you a bed; you will fare as well as my husband and the boys.”

“How kind you are!” murmured Dionysius. “To me this simple provision will be a luxury. For a week I have slept on the bare ground without a blanket.”

“You need not go to bed as early as the rest of us, unless you like.”

“My dear lady, if you don’t object, I will retire into the woods for an hour and indulge in religious meditation. I wish to express my thanks to Providence for my happy encounter with your kind party.”

“There is no objection, I am sure, Mr. Silverthorn,” said Mrs. Cooper. “What a good man he is!” she said to herself.