Part 24 (1/2)
The men endeavoured to dissuade them from their purpose, but they were both fatigued, and persisted in their determination. The impression they had made, however, on their new friends was so favourable, that one of their number, a Yankee, offered the loan of his horse to Ned, an offer which the latter accepted thankfully, promising to return it safe and sound early on the following day. Five minutes later the sound of the retreating hoofs died away, and the travellers stood silently side by side in the gloomy ravine.
For a few minutes neither spoke; then Ned heaved a sigh, and, looking in his companion's face with a serio-comically-sad expression, said:
”It may not, perhaps, have occurred to you, Tom, but are you aware that we are a couple of beggars?”
”If you use the term in its slang sense, and mean to insinuate that we are a couple of unfortunate beggars, I agree with you.”
”Well, I've no objection,” rejoined Ned, ”to your taking my words in that sense; but I mean to say that, over and above that, we are real, veritable, _bona fide_ beggars, inasmuch as we have not a sixpence in the world.”
Tom Collins's visage grew exceedingly long.
”Our united purse,” pursued Ned, ”hung, as you are aware, at my saddle-bow, and yon unmitigated villain who appropriated my good steed, is now in possession of all our hard-earned gold!”
Tom's countenance became preternaturally grave, but he did not venture to speak.
”Now,” continued Ned, forcing a smile, ”there is nothing for it but to make for the nearest diggings, commence work again, and postpone our travels to a future and more convenient season. We may laugh at it as we please, my dear fellow, but there's no denying that we are in what the Yankees would call an `oncommon fix.'”
Ned's remark as to ”laughing at it,” was altogether uncalled for and inappropriate, for his own smile might have been more correctly termed a grin, and nothing was further from Tom Collins's thoughts at that moment than laughing.
”Are the victuals gone too?” inquired Ned, hastily.
Both turned their eyes towards Tom Collins's horse, which grazed hard by, and both heaved a sigh of relief on observing that the saddle-bags were safe. This was a small drop of comfort in their otherwise bitter cup, and they made the most of it. Each, as if by a common impulse, pretending that he cared very little about the matter, and a.s.suming that the other stood in need of being cheered and comforted, went about the preparations for encamping with a degree of reckless joviality that insensibly raised their spirits, not only up to but considerably above the natural level; and when at last they had spread out their viands, and lighted their fire and their pipes, they were, according to Tom's a.s.sertion, ”happy as kings.”
The choosing of a spot to encamp on formed the subject of an amicable dispute.
”I recommend the level turf under this oak,” said Ned, pointing to a huge old tree, whose gnarled limbs covered a wide s.p.a.ce of level sward.
”It's too low,” objected Tom, (Tom could always object--a quality which, while it acted like an agreeable dash of cayenne thrown into the conversation of some of his friends, proved to be sparks applied to gunpowder in that of others;) ”it's too low, and, doubtless, moist. I think that yonder pine, with its spreading branches and sweet-smelling cones, and carpet of moss below, is a much more fitting spot.”
”Now, who is to decide the question if I don't give in, Tom? For I a.s.sume, of course, that you will never give in.”
At that moment an accident occurred which decided the question for them.
It frequently happens that some of the huge, heavy branches of the oaks in America become so thoroughly dried and brittle by the intense heat of summer, that they snap off without a moment's warning, often when there is not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf. This propensity is so well-known to Californian travellers that they are somewhat careful in selecting their camping ground, yet, despite all their care, an occasional life is lost by the falling of such branches.
An event of this kind occurred at the present time. The words had barely pa.s.sed Ned's lips, when a large limb of the oak beside which they stood snapt off with a loud report, and fell with a crash to the ground.
”That settles it,” said Tom, somewhat seriously, as he led his horse towards the pine-tree, and proceeded to spread his blanket beneath its branches.
In a few minutes the bright flame of their camp-fire threw a lurid glare on the trees and projecting cliffs of the wild pa.s.s, while they cooked and ate their frugal meal of jerked beef and biscuit. They conversed little during the repast or after it, for drowsiness began to steal over them, and it was not long before they laid their heads, side by side, on their saddles, and murmuring ”Good-night,” forgot their troubles in the embrace of deep, refres.h.i.+ng slumber.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
A CURIOUS AND VALUABLE DRAUGHT--LYNCH LAW APPLIED--BLACK JIM'S CONFESSION--NED BECOMES A PAINTER, AND FINDS THE PROFESSION PROFITABLE AS WELL AS AMUSING--THE FIRST PORTRAIT.
Next morning the travellers were up and away by daybreak, and in the afternoon they came upon a solitary miner who was prospecting in a gulch near the road-side.
This word gulch is applied to the peculiarly abrupt, short ravines, which are a characteristic feature in Californian more than in any other mountains. The weather was exceedingly hot, and the man took off his cap and wiped his streaming brow as he looked at the travellers who approached him.