Kitabı oku: «Gold», sayfa 17
“I can foresee a lot of violence before the thing is worked out.”
At this point the doctor, to his manifest disgust, was summoned to attend to some patient.
“That all sounds interesting,” said I to Danny Randall once we were alone, “but I don’t exactly fit it in.”
“It means,” said Danny, “that some day Morton’s gang will go a little too far, and we’ll have to get together and string some of them up.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE OVERLAND IMMIGRANTS
The overland immigrants never ceased to interest us. The illness, destitution, and suffering that obtained among these people has never been adequately depicted. For one outfit with healthy looking members and adequate cattle there were dozens conducted by hollow-eyed, gaunt men, drawn by few weak animals. Women trudged wearily, carrying children. And the tales they brought were terrible. They told us of thousands they had left behind in the great desert of the Humboldt Sink, fighting starvation, disease, and the loss of cattle. Women who had lost their husbands from the deadly cholera were staggering on without food or water, leading their children. The trail was lined with dead mules and cattle. Some said that five thousand had perished on the plains from cholera alone. In the middle of the desert, miles from anywhere, were the death camps, the wagons drawn in the usual circle, the dead animals tainting the air, every living human being crippled from scurvy and other diseases. There was no fodder for the cattle, and one man told us that he estimated, soberly, that three fourths of the draught animals on the plains must die.
“And then where will their owners be?”
The Indians were hostile and thieving. Most of the ample provision that had been laid in had to be thrown away to lighten the loads for the enfeebled animals. Such immigrants as got through often arrived in an impoverished condition. Many of these on the route were reduced by starvation to living on the putrefied flesh of the dead animals along the road. This occasioned more sickness. The desert seemed interminable. At nightfall the struggling trains lay down exhausted with only the assurance of another scorching, burning day to follow. And when at last a few reached the Humboldt River, they found it almost impossible to ford–and the feed on the other side. In the distance showed the high forbidding ramparts of the Sierra Nevadas. A man named Delano told us that five men drowned themselves in the Humboldt River in one day out of sheer discouragement. Another man said he had saved the lives of his oxen by giving some Indians fifteen dollars to swim the river and float some grass across to him. The water of the Humboldt had a bad effect on horses, and great numbers died. The Indians stole others. The animals that remained were weak. The destruction of property was immense, for everything that could be spared was thrown away in order to lighten the loads. The road was lined with abandoned wagons, stoves, mining implements, clothes.
We were told these things over and over, heavily, in little snatches, by men too wearied and discouraged and beaten even to rejoice that they had come through alive. They were not interested in telling us, but they told, as though their minds were so full that they could not help it. I remember one evening when we were feeding at our camp the members of one of these trains, a charity every miner proffered nearly every day of the week. The party consisted of one wagon, a half dozen gaunt, dull-eyed oxen, two men, and a crushed-looking, tragic young woman. One of the men had in a crude way the gift of words.
He told of the crowds of people awaiting the new grass at Independence in Missouri, of the making up of the parties, the election of officers for the trip, the discussion of routes, the visiting, the campfires, the boundless hope.
“There were near twenty thousand people waiting for the grass,” said our friend; a statement we thought exaggerated, but one which I have subsequently found to be not far from the truth.
By the middle of May the trail from the Missouri River to Fort Laramie was occupied by a continuous line of wagons.
“That was fine travelling,” said the immigrant in the detached way of one who speaks of dead history. “There was grass and water; and the wagon seemed like a little house at night. Everybody was jolly. It didn’t last long.”
After Fort Laramie there were three hundred miles of plains, with little grass and less water.
“We thought that was a desert!” exclaimed the immigrant bitterly. “My God! Quite a lot turned back at Laramie. They were scared by the cholera that broke out, scared by the stories of the desert, scared by the Indians. They went back. I suppose they’re well and hearty–and kicking themselves every gold report that goes back east.”
The bright anticipations, the joy of the life, the romance of the journey all faded before the grim reality. The monotony of the plains, the barrenness of the desert, the toil of the mountains, the terrible heat, the dust, the rains, the sickness, the tragedy of deaths had flattened all buoyancy, and left in its stead only a sullen, dogged determination.
“There was lots of quarrelling, of course,” said our narrator. “Everybody was on edge. There were fights, that we had to settle somehow, and bad feeling.”
They had several minor skirmishes with Indians, lost from their party by disease, suffered considerable hardships and infinite toil.
“We thought we’d had a hard time,” said our friend wonderingly. “Lord!”
At the very start of the journey they had begun to realize that they were overloaded, and had commenced to throw away superfluous goods. Several units of the party had even to abandon some of their wagons.
“We chucked everything we thought we could get along without. I know we spent all one day frying out bacon to get the grease before we threw it away. We used the grease for our axles.”
They reached the head of the Humboldt. Until this point they had kept together, but now demoralization began. They had been told at Salt Lake City that they had but four hundred miles to go to Sacramento. Now they discovered that at the Humboldt they had still more than that distance to travel; and that before them lay the worst desert of all.
“Mind you,” said our friend, “we had been travelling desperately. Our cattle had died one by one; and we had doubled up with our teams. We had starved for water until our beasts were ready to drop and our own tongues had swollen in our mouths, and were scared–scared, I tell you–scared!”
He moistened his lips slowly, and went on. “Sometimes we took two or three hours to go a mile, relaying back and forth. We were down to a fine point. It wasn’t a question of keeping our property any more; it was a case of saving our lives. We’d abandoned a good half of our wagons already. When we got to the Humboldt and learned from a mountain man going the other way that the great desert was still before us, and when we had made a day or two’s journey down the river toward the Sink, I tell you we lost our nerve–and our sense.” He ruminated a few moments in silence. “My God! man!” he cried. “That trail! From about halfway down the river the carcasses of horses and oxen were so thick that I believe if they’d been laid in the road instead of alongside you could have walked the whole way without setting foot to ground!”
And then the river disappeared underground, and they had to face the crossing of the Sink itself.
“That was a real desert,” the immigrant told us sombrely. “There were long white fields of alkali and drifts of ashes across them so soft that the cattle sank way to their bellies. They moaned and bellowed! Lord, how they moaned! And the dust rose up so thick you couldn’t breathe, and the sun beat down so fierce you felt it like something heavy on your head. And how the place stunk with the dead beasts!”
The party’s organization broke. The march became a rout. Everybody pushed on with what strength he had. No man, woman, or child could ride; the wagons were emptied of everything but the barest necessities. At every stop some animal fell in the traces, and was cut out of the yoke. When a wagon came to a stop, it was abandoned, the animals detached and driven forward.
Those who were still afoot were constantly besought by those who had been forced to a standstill.
“I saw one old man, his wife and his daughter, all walking along on foot,” said the immigrant bitterly. “They were half knee deep in alkali, the sun was broiling hot, they had absolutely nothing. We couldn’t help them. What earthly chance had they? I saw a wagon stalled, the animals lying dead in their yokes, all except one old ox. A woman and three children sat inside the wagon. She called to me that they hadn’t had anything to eat for three days, and begged me to take the children. I couldn’t. I could have stopped and died there with her, but I couldn’t put another pound on my wagon and hope to get through. We were all walking alongside; even Sue, here.”
The woman raised her tragic face.
“We left our baby there,” she said; and stared back again into the coals of the fire.
“We made it,” resumed the immigrant. “We got to the Truckee River somehow, and we rested there three days. I don’t know what became of the rest of our train; dead perhaps.”
We told him of the immigrant register or bulletin board at Morton’s.
“I must look that over,” said he. “I don’t know how long it took us to cross the mountains. Those roads are terrible; and our cattle were weak. We were pretty near out of grub too. Most of the people have no food at all. Well, here we are! But there are thousands back of us. What are they going to do? And when the mountains fill with snow─”
After the trio, well fed for the first time in months, had turned in, we sat talking about our fire. We were considerably subdued and sobered; for this was the first coherent account we had heard at first hand. Two things impressed us–the tragedy, the futility. The former aspect hit us all; the latter struck strongly at Old and Cal. Those youngsters, wise in the ways of the plains, were filled with sad surprise over the incompetence of it all.
“But thar ain’t no manner of use in it!” cried Old. “They are just bullin’ at it plumb regardless! They ain’t handled their cattle right! They ain’t picked their route right–why, the old Mormon trail down by the Carson Sink is better’n that death-trap across the Humboldt. And cut-offs! What license they all got chasin’ every fool cut-off reported in? Most of ’em is all right fer pack-trains and all wrong fer wagons! Oh, Lord!”
“They don’t know,” said I, “poor devils, they don’t know. They were raised on farms and in the cities.”
Johnny had said nothing. His handsome face looked very sombre in the firelight.
“Jim,” said he, “we’re due for a trip to-night; but I want you to promise me one thing–just keep these people here, and feed them up until we get back. Tell them I’ve got a job for them. Will you do it?”
I tried to pump Johnny as to his intentions, but could get nothing out of him; and so promised blindly. About two o’clock I was roused from my sleep by a soft moving about. Thrusting my head from the tent I made out the dim figures of our horsemen, mounted, and moving quietly away down the trail.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE PRISONERS
I had no great difficulty in persuading the immigrants to rest over.
“To tell you the truth,” the narrator confided to me, “I don’t know where we’re going. We have no money, We’ve got to get work somehow. I don’t know now why we came.”
His name, he told me, was George Woodruff; he had been a lawyer in a small Pennsylvania town; his total possessions were now represented by the remains of his ox team, his wagon, and the blankets in which he slept. The other man was his brother Albert, and the woman his sister-in-law.
“We started with four wagons and a fine fit-out of supplies,” he told me–“food enough to last two years. This is what we have left. The cattle aren’t in bad shape now though; and they are extra fine stock. Perhaps I can sell them for a little.”
Two days passed. We arose the morning of the third to find that the oxen had strayed away during the night. Deciding they could not have wandered far, I went to my gold washing as usual, leaving Woodruff and his brother to hunt them up. About ten o’clock they came to my claim very much troubled.
“We can’t find them anywhere,” they told me, “and it doesn’t seem natural that they should stray far; they are too tired.”
I knocked off work, and returned with them to the flat, where we proceeded to look for tracks. The earth was too hard and tramped to show us much, and after a half hour of fruitless examination we returned to camp with the intention of eating something before starting out on a serious search. While thus engaged the express messengers rode up.
“Hullo!” said Johnny cheerfully. “Glad to hear you made such a good thing out of your cattle!”
He caught our stare of surprise, swung from his horse and advanced on us with three swift strides.
“You haven’t sold them?” he exclaimed.
“We’ve been looking for them all the morning.”
“Stolen, boys!” he cried to his companions. “Here’s our job! Come on!”
He leaped on his horse in the headlong, graceful fashion the boys had cultivated at the relay station, and, followed by Cal and Old, dashed away.
We made nothing definite of this, though we had our surmises to exchange. As the boys had not returned an hour later, I resumed my digging while the Woodruffs went over to visit with Yank, who was now out of bed. Evening came, with no sign of our friends. We turned in at last.
Some time after midnight we were awakened by the shuffling and lowing of driven cattle, and went out into the moonlight to see our six oxen, just released from herding, plunging their noses thirstily into the little stream from the spring. Five figures on horseback sat motionless in the background behind them. When the cattle had finished drinking, the horsemen, riding in two couples and one single, turned them into the flat, and then came over to our camp.
After they had approached within plain sight we saw that the single horseman was Cal Marsh; and that Johnny and Old each led an animal on which a man was tied, his arms behind him, his feet shackled beneath the horse’s barrel.
“Here, you fellows,” said Johnny in a low voice, “just catch hold here and help with these birds.”
The three descended rather wearily from their horses, the lead lines of which Cal held while the rest unshackled the prisoners and helped them to dismount. They were both known to me, one as the big desperado, Malone; and the other as the barkeeper at Morton’s place, our old friend of Chagres days. The latter’s head was roughly bound with a bloody cloth. Under Johnny’s direction we tied them firmly. He issued his orders in a low-voiced, curt fashion that precluded anything but the most instant and silent obedience.
“There,” said he at last, “they’ll do. Chuck them inside where they’ll be out of sight. Now about those two horses─”
“I’ll just run ’em up to the Dutchman’s Flat and stake ’em out thar,” interposed Old. “Thar ain’t no one thar; and they won’t be discovered.”
“Well,” conceded Johnny, “if your horse isn’t too tired.”
“She’ll make it,” replied Old confidently.
“Now for our horses,” said Johnny. “Won’t do to be getting in at this time of night. It doesn’t look natural. Don’t believe we can get them to the stable without being spotted. Maybe you’d better stake them up there too. Can you walk back?”
“I reckon,” said Old.
He tied the four led horses together, mounted, took the lead rope from Cal, and rode off up the gulch.
Cal came to the fire and sat down. I was instantly struck by his ghastly appearance.
“Cal’s bored through the shoulder,” Johnny explained. “Now, Jim, you’ve got to go up and get Dr. Rankin. He lives at Barnes’s hotel, you know. Barnes is all right; bring him down, too, if you happen to wake him up. Go around to Danny Randall’s quietly and tell him we want to see him. He sleeps in that little back room. Throw some pebbles against the stovepipe; that’ll wake him up. Look out he doesn’t pot you. Don’t let anybody see you if you can possibly help; and tell the others to slip out here quietly, too. Do you understand all that?”
“I see what I’m to do,” I assented; “but let me in! What’s it all about?”
“We met these men and three others driving Woodruff’s oxen this morning,” said Johnny rapidly. “Stopped and had quite a chat with them. They told what sounded like a straight story of having bought the oxen. I knew Woodruff wanted to sell. Didn’t suppose they’d have the nerve to lift them right under our noses. Guess they hadn’t an idea they’d meet us on the road. We were taking the lower trail just for a change. So as soon as we got the news from you, we went back, of course. They suspected trouble, and had turned off. Old and Cal are wonders at trailing. Came up with them just beyond Bitter Water, and monkeyed around quite a while before we got a favourable chance to tackle them. Then we took the cattle away and brought back these birds. That’s all there was to it.”
“You said five. Where are the other three?”
“Killed ’em,” said Johnny briefly. “Now run along and do your job.”
After some delay and difficulty I fulfilled my instructions, returning at last in company with Danny Randall, to find my friends sitting around the little fire, and Dr. Rankin engaged in bathing Cal’s wound. Johnny was repeating his story, to which the others were listening attentively.
“I learned a little more of this sort of thing in Sacramento,” he was concluding. “And I’d like to state this right here and now: practical jokes on these immigrants are poor taste as far as I am concerned from now on. That’s my own private declaration of war.”
“Let’s take a look at your birds, Johnny,” suggested Randall.
I brought out the prisoners and stacked them up against the trees. They gave us back look for look defiantly.
“You won’t live a week after this,” said the Morton man, whose name was Carhart, addressing Johnny.
“I’ll just have a look at your head, my friend,” said Dr. Rankin.
The man bent his head, and the doctor began to remove the bloody bandages.
“Question is,” said Johnny, “what do we do with them?”
Danny was thinking hard.
“One of two things,” said he at length: “We can string them up quietly, and leave them as a warning; or we can force matters to a showdown by calling a public meeting.”
“Question is,” said I, “whether we can get anybody with nerve enough to serve as officers of court, or, indeed, to testify as witnesses.”
“You said a true word there,” put in Carhart with an oath.
“I’ll bear witness for one,” offered Dr. Rankin, looking up from his work, “and on a good many things.”
“Look out, damn you!” muttered Carhart.
“I’ve been called to a good many cases of gunshot wounds,” continued the doctor steadily, “and I’ve kept quiet because I was given to understand that my life was worth nothing if I spoke.”
“You’d better keep your mouth shut!” warned the bandit.
“Now,” pursued the doctor, “I personally believe the time has come to assert ourselves. I’m in favour of serving notice on the whole lot, and cleaning up the mess once and for all. I believe there are more decent men than criminals in this camp, if you get them together.”
“That’s my idea,” agreed Johnny heartily. “Get the camp together; I’ll see every man in it and let Woodruff tell his tale, and then let Old or me tell ours.”
“And I’ll tell mine,” said Dr. Rankin.
Danny Randall shook his head.
“They’ll rise to it like men!” cried Johnny indignantly. “Nobody but a murderer and cattle thief listening to that story could remain unmoved.”
“Well,” said Danny, “if you won’t just quietly hang these fellows right now, try the other. I should string ’em up and shut their mouths. You’re too early; it won’t do.”
CHAPTER XXXV
THE TRIAL
The meeting took place in the Bella Union, and the place was crowded to the doors. All the roughs in town were on hand, fully armed, swearing, swaggering, and brandishing their weapons. They had much to say by way of threat, for they did not hesitate to show their sympathies. As I looked upon their unexpected numbers and listened to their wild talk, I must confess that my heart failed me. Though they had not the advantage in numbers, they knew each other; were prepared to work together; were, in general, desperately courageous and reckless, and imbued with the greatest confidence. The decent miners, on the other hand, were practically unknown to each other; and, while brave enough and hardy enough, possessed neither the recklessness nor desperation of the others. I think our main weakness sprang from the selfish detachment that had prevented us from knowing whom to trust.
After preliminary organization a wrangle at once began as to the form of the trial. We held very strongly that we should continue our usual custom of open meeting; but Morton insisted with equal vehemence that the prisoners should have jury trial. The discussion grew very hot and confused. Pistols and knives were flourished. The chair put the matter to a vote, but was unable to decide from the yells and howls that answered the question which side had the preponderance. A rising vote was demanded.
“Won’t they attempt a rescue?” I asked of Danny Randall, under cover of the pandemonium. “They could easily fight their way free.”
He shook his head.
“That would mean outlawing themselves. They would rather get clear under some show of law. Then they figure to run the camp.”
The vote was understood to favour a jury trial.
“That settles it,” said Danny; “the poor damn fools.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“You’ll see,” said he.
In the selection of the jury we had the advantage. None of the roughs could get on the panel to hang the verdict, for the simple reason that they were all too well known. The miners cautiously refused to endorse any one whose general respectability was not known to them. I found myself one of those selected.
A slight barrier consisting of a pole thrown across one corner of the room set aside a jury box. We took our places therein. Men crowded to the pole, talking for our benefit, cursing steadily, and uttering the most frightful threats.
I am not going to describe that most turbulent afternoon. The details are unessential to the main point, which was our decision. Counsel was appointed by the court from among the numerous ex-lawyers. The man who took charge of the defence was from New York, and had served some ten years in the profession before the gold fever took him. I happen to know that he was a most sober-minded, steady individual, not at all in sympathy with the rougher elements; but, like most of his ilk, he speedily became so intensely interested in plying his profession that he forgot utterly the justice of the case. He defended the lawless element with all the tricks at his command. For that reason Woodruff was prevented from testifying at all, except as to his ownership of the cattle; so that the effect of his pathetic story was lost. Dr. Rankin had no chance to appear. This meeting should have marked the awakening of public spirit to law and order; and if all the elements of the case had been allowed to come before the decent part of the community in a common-sense fashion, I am quite sure it would have done so. But two lawyers got interested in tangling each other up with their technicalities, and the result was that the real significance of the occasion was lost to sight. The lawyer for the defence, pink and warm and happy, sat down quite pleased with his adroitness. A few of us, and the desperadoes, alone realized what it all meant.
We retired to Randall’s little room to deliberate. Not a man of the twelve of us had the first doubt as to the guilt of the prisoners. We took a ballot. The result was eleven for acquittal and one for conviction. I had cast the one vote for conviction.
We argued the matter for three hours.
“There’s no doubt the men are guilty,” said one. “That isn’t the question. The question is, dare we declare it?”
“It amounts to announcing our own death sentence,” argued another. “Those fellows would stand together, but who of the lot would stand by us? Why, we don’t even know for sure who would be with us.”
“This case ought never to have been tried by a jury,” complained a third bitterly. “It ought to have been tried in a miners’ court; and if it hadn’t been for those soft heads who were strong for doing things ‘regularly’ instead of sensibly, we’d have had it done that way.”
“Well,” said an older man gravely, “I agree to that. I am going to be governed in my decision not by the merits of the case, but by the fact that I have a family back in the States. I consider my obligations to them greater than to this community.”
I reasoned with them for a long time, bringing to bear all the arguments I had heard advanced at various times during our discussions in Danny Randall’s back room. At last, seeing I could in no manner shake their resolution, I gave in. After all, I could not blame them. The case was to them only one of cattle stealing; they had no chance to realize that it was anything more. Without solicitation on my part they agreed to keep secret my opposition to the verdict of acquittal.
Our decision was greeted by wild yells and the discharge of pistols on the part of the rough element. The meeting broke up informally and in confusion. It would have been useless for the presiding officer to have attempted to dismiss court. The mob broke through en masse to congratulate the prisoners. Immediately the barkeepers were overwhelmed with work. Here and there I could see a small group of the honest men talking low-voiced, with many shakes of the head. Johnny, Old, and Cal, who had attended with his arm slung up, had their heads together in a corner. Danny Randall, who, it will be remembered, had not appeared publicly in any way, stood at his customary corner of the bar watching all that was going on. His gamblers were preparing to reopen the suspended games.
After conferring together a moment the three express messengers made their way slowly across the room to the bar. I could not see exactly what happened, but heard the sudden reverberations of several pistol shots. The lamps and glasses rattled with the concussion, the white smoke of the discharges eddied and rose. An immediate dead silence fell, except for the sounds made by the movements of those seeking safe places. Johnny and his two friends shoulder to shoulder backed slowly away toward the door. Johnny and Old presented each two pistols at the group around the bar, while Cal, a revolver in his well hand, swept the muzzle slowly from side to side. Nobody near the bar stirred. The express messengers backed to the door.
“Keep your heads inside,” warned Johnny clearly. On the words they vanished.
Immediately pandemonium broke loose. The men along the bar immediately became very warlike; but none of those who brandished pistols tried to leave the building. From the swing and sway of the crowd, and the babel of yells, oaths, threats, and explanations I could make nothing. Danny Randall alone of all those in the room held his position unmoved. At last a clear way offered, so I went over to him.
“What’s happened?” I shouted at him through the din.
Danny shrugged his shoulders.
“They killed Carhart and Malone,” Danny replied curtly.
It seemed, I ascertained at last, that the three had advanced and opened fire on the two ex-prisoners without warning.
As soon as possible I made my escape and returned to our own camp. There I found the three of them seated smoking, their horses all saddled, standing near at hand.
“Are they coming our way?” asked Johnny instantly.
I told them that I had seen no indications of a mob.
“But why did you do it?” I cried. “It’s an open challenge! They’ll get you boys now sure!”
“That remains to be seen,” said Johnny grimly. “But it was the only thing to do. If Carhart and Malone had ever been given time to report on our confab the other evening, you and Danny Randall and Dr. Rankin would have been marked men. Now no one knows of your connection with this matter.”
“But they’ll be after you─”
“They were after us in any case,” Johnny pointed out. “Don’t deceive yourself there. Now you keep out of this and let us do it.”
“I reckon we can handle this bunch,” said Old.
“Lord! what a lot of jellyfish!” cried Johnny disgustedly. “Danny was right enough about them. But let me state right here and once again that practical jokes on immigrants are going to be mighty unhealthy here.”
