Part 43 (1/2)
The news of Jim Bridger's arrival, and the swift rumor that he would serve as pilot for the train over the dangerous portion of the route ahead, spread an instantaneous feeling of relief throughout the hesitant encampment at this, the last touch with civilization east of the destination. He paused briefly at one or another wagon after he had made his own animals comfortable, laughing and jesting in his own independent way, _en route_ to fulfill his promise to himself regarding the trader's rum.
In most ways the old scout's wide experience gave his dicta value. In one a.s.sertion, however, he was wide of the truth, or short of it. So far from things being as bad as they could be, the rapid events of that same morning proved that still more confusion was to ensue, and that speedily.
There came riding into the post from the westward a little party of old-time mountain men, driving their near-spent mounts and packs at a speed unusual even in that land of vast distances. They were headed by a man well known in that vicinity who, though he had removed to California since the fur days, made annual pilgrimage to meet the emigrant trains at Fort Hall in order to do proselyting for California, extolling the virtues of that land and picturing in direst fas.h.i.+on the horrors of the road thence to Oregon and the worthlessness of Oregon if ever attained.
”Old Greenwood” was the only name by which he was known. He was an old, old man, past eighty then, some said, with a deep blue eye, long white hair, a long and unkempt beard and a tongue of unparalleled profanity.
He came in now, shouting and singing, as did the men of the mountains making the Rendezvous in the old days.
”How, Greenwood! What brings ye here so late?” demanded his erstwhile crony, Jim Bridger, advancing, tin cup in hand, to meet him. ”Light.
Eat. Special, drink. How--to the old times!”
”Old times be d.a.m.ned!” exclaimed Old Greenwood. ”These is new times.”
He lifted from above the chafed hips of his trembling horse two sacks of something very heavy.
”How much is this worth to ye?” he demanded of Bridger and the trader.
”Have ye any shovels? Have ye any picks? Have ye flour, meal, sugar--anything?”
”Gold!” exclaimed Jim Bridger. ”Kit Carson did not lie! He never did!”
And they did not know how much this was worth. They had no scales for raw gold, nor any system of valuation for it. And they had no shovels and no pickaxes; and since the families had come they now had very little flour at Fort Hall.
But now they had the news! This was the greatest news that ever came to old Fort Hall--the greatest news America knew for many a year, or the world--the news of the great gold strikes in California.
Old Greenwood suddenly broke out, ”Have we left the mines an' come this fur fer nothin'? I tell ye, we must have supplies! A hundred dollars fer a pick! A hundred dollars fer a shovel! A hundred dollars fer a pair o'
blankets! An ounce fer a box of sardines, d.a.m.n ye! An ounce fer half a pound o' b.u.t.ter! A half ounce fer a aig! Anything ye like fer anything that's green! Three hundred fer a gallon o' likker! A ounce for a box o'
pills! Eight hundred fer a barrel o' flour! Same fer pork, same fer sugar, same fer coffee! d.a.m.n yer picayune hides, we'll show ye what prices is! What's money to us? We can git the pure gold that money's made out of, an' git it all we want! Hooray fer Californy!”
He broke into song. His comrades roared in Homeric chorus with him, pa.s.sing from one to another of the current ditties of the mines. They declared in unison, ”Old Grimes is dead, that good old man!” Then they swung off to yet another cla.s.sic ballad:
_There was an old woman who had three, sons-- Joshua, James and John!
Josh got shot, and Jim got drowned, And John got lost and never was found, And that was the end of the woman's three sons, Joshua, James and John_.
Having finished the obsequies of the three sons, not once but many times, they went forward with yet another adaptation, following Old Greenwood, who stood with head thrown back and sang with tones of Bashan:
_Oh, then Susannah, Don't you cry fer me!
I'm goin' to Californuah, With my wash pan on my knee_.
The news of the gold was out. Bridger forgot his cups, forgot his friends, hurried to Molly Wingate's cart again.
”Hit's true, Miss Molly!” he cried--”truer'n true hitself! Yan's men just in from Californy, an' they've got two horseloads o' gold, an' they say hit's nothin'--they come out fer supplies. They tried to stop Will Banion--they did trade some with Woodhull. They're nigh to Humboldt by now an' goin' hard. Miss Molly, gal, he's in ahead o' the hull country, an' got six months by hisself! Lord give him luck! Hit'll be winter, afore the men back East kin know. He's one year ahead--thanks ter yer lie ter me, an ter Kit, and Kit's ter his General.
”Gold! Ye kain't hide hit an' ye kain't find hit an' ye kain't dig hit up an' ye kain't keep hit down. Miss Molly, gal, I like ye, but how I do wish't ye was a man, so's you an' me could celerbrate this here fitten!”
”Listen!” said the girl. ”Our bugle! That's a.s.sembly!”
”Yes, they'll all be there. Come when ye kin. h.e.l.l's a-poppin' now!”