Loe raamatut: «Gold», lehekülg 12
CHAPTER XXII
THE STRIKE
We awoke next morning to a bright day. The helmeted quail were calling; the bees were just beginning a sun-warmed hum among the bushes; a languorous warmth hung in the air, and a Sunday stillness. It was as though we awakened to a new world, untrodden by men; which was, indeed, a good deal the case.
While we ate breakfast we discussed our plans. The first necessity, of course, was to find out about gold. To that end we agreed to separate for the day, prospecting far and wide. Bagsby kept camp, and an eye on the horses. He displayed little interest in the gold proposition; but insisted strongly that we should carry both our rifles and revolvers.
It would be difficult to describe the thrill of anticipation with which I set off up the valley. The place was so new, so untouched, so absolutely unknown. The high ridges on either side frowned down austerely on the little meadows that smiled back quite unabashed. As I crossed the brown dry meadow toward the river a covey of quail whirred away before me, lit, and paced off at a great rate. Two big grouse roared from a thicket.
The river was a beautiful, clear stream, with green wavery water whirling darkly in pools, or breaking white among the stones. As my shadow fell upon it, I caught a glimpse of a big trout scurrying into the darkness beneath a boulder. Picking my way among the loose stones I selected a likely place on the bar and struck home my pick.
I have since repeated the sensations of that day–on a smaller scale of course–in whipping untried trout waters; same early excitement and enthusiasm, same eager sustained persistence in face of failure, same incredulous slowing down, same ultimate discouragement, disbelief and disgust. All that day I shovelled and panned. The early morning freshness soon dissipated. Between the high mountain walls the heat reflected. All the quail stood beneath the shade of bushes, their beaks half open as though panting. The birds that had sung so sweetly in the early morning had somewhere sought repose. I could occasionally catch glimpses of our horses dozing under trees. Even the chirping insects were still. As far as I could make out I was the only living thing foolish enough to stay abroad and awake in that suffocating heat. The sweat dripped from me in streams; my eyes ached from the glare of the sun on the rocks and the bleached grasses. Toward the close of the afternoon I confessed sneakingly to myself that I was just a little glad I had found no gold and that I hoped the others had been equally unfortunate. The thought of working day after day in that furnace heat was too much for me.
My hopes were fulfilled. All came in that night tired, hot, dirty, and discouraged. Not one of the eight of us had raised a sign of colour.
“Well,” said Bagsby philosophically, “that’s all right. We’ve just got to go higher. To-morrow we’ll move upstream.”
Accordingly next day we turned at right angles to our former route and followed up the bed of the cañon ten or twelve miles toward the distant main ranges. It was, in general, rather hard scrabbling for the horses, though we footmen did well enough. Sometimes we crossed wide flats, resembling the one we had just left; again, where the cañon narrowed, we had actually to stumble in the rocks of the stream bed. Twice we forded, and twice we had to make great climbs up and down again in order to get by points that came boldly down to the river. It was curious to see the nature of the country change. The pines on the mountains to our right and left seemed to push down nearer to our level; the grass turned green; the stream narrowed and became swifter; the sky seemed to turn bluer; and from the ranges breathed a cool, refreshing wind.
About four o’clock we camped. The flat was green; little clumps of cedar pushed out across it; the oaks had given place to cottonwoods; we had now to make acquaintance with new birds. But what particularly interested us was the fact that at this point the high cañon walls at either side broke into rounder hills that opened out widely, and that from among them descended many ravines, barrancas, and dry washes.
The following morning we went prospecting again. My instructions were for the dry washes in the sides of the hills. Accordingly I scrambled up among the boulders in the nearest V-shaped ravine. I had hardly to look at all. Behind a large boulder lay a little cuplike depression of stones in which evidently had stood a recently evaporated pool of water, and which, in consequence, was free from the usual dusty rubble. In the interstices between the stones my eye caught a dull glitter. I fell on my knees, dug about with the point of my bowie knife, and so unearthed small nuggets aggregating probably a half ounce in weight.
Although mightily tempted to stay for more, I minded our agreement to report promptly the first discovery, and started back to camp. Why I did not come a header in that fearful, boulder-strewn wash I cannot tell you. Certainly I took no care of my going, but leaped recklessly from rock to rock like a goat. When I reached the flat, I ran, whooping like an Indian. From the river I could see Johnny and Buck Barry running, too, and had sense enough to laugh as it occurred to me they must think us attacked by Indians. Far down the stream I could just make out figures I knew to be Yank and McNally. They too seemed to be coming to camp, though I could not imagine that my shouts had carried so far.
I burst in on Bagsby, who was smoking his pipe and leisurely washing the breakfast dishes, with a whoop, lifted him bodily by the shoulders, whirled him around in a clumsy dance. He aimed a swipe at me with the wet dish cloth that caught me across the eyes.
“You tarnation young grizzly b’ar!” said he.
I wiped the water from my eyes. Johnny and Buck Barry ran up. Somehow they did not seem to be anticipating an Indian attack after all. Johnny ran up to thump me on the back.
“Isn’t it great!” he cried. “Right off the reel! First pop! Bagsby, old sport, you’re a wonder!” He started for Bagsby, who promptly rushed for his long rifle.
“I’m going to kill the first lunatic I see,” he announced.
Johnny laughed excitedly, and turned back to thump me again.
“How did you guess what it was?” I asked.
“Didn’t. Just blundered on it.”
“What!” I yelled. “Have you struck it, too?”
“First shovel,” said Johnny. “But you don’t mean─”
I thrust my three nuggets under his eyes.
“Say,” broke in Buck Barry, “if you fellows know where the whiskey is, hide it, and hide it quick. If I see it, I’ll get drunk!”
Yank and McNally at this moment strolled from around the bushes. We all burst out on them.
“See your fool nuggets and ‘colour,’ and raise you this,” drawled Yank, and he hauled from his pocket the very largest chunk of virgin gold it has ever been my good fortune to behold. It was irregular in shape, pitted and scored, shaped a good deal like an egg, and nearly its size. One pound and a tiny fraction that great nugget balanced–when we got around to weighing it. And then to crown the glorious day which the gods were brimming for us, came Don Gaspar and Vasquez, trailed by that long and saturnine individual, Missouri Jones. The Spaniards were outwardly calm, but their eyes snapped. As soon as they saw us they waved their hats.
“Ah! also you have found the gold!” cried Don Gaspar, sensing immediately the significance of our presence. “We, too. It is of good colour; there above by the bend.” His eye widened as he saw what Yank held. “Madre de dios!” he murmured.
McNally, who had said and done nothing, suddenly uttered a resounding whoop and stood on his hands. Missouri Jones, taking aim, spat carefully into the centre of the fire, missing the dishpan by a calculated and accurate inch.
“The country is just lousy with gold,” he pronounced.
Then we blew up. We hugged each other, we pounded each other’s backs, we emulated McNally’s wild Irish whoops, finally we joined hands and danced around and around the remains of the fire, kicking up our heels absurdly. Bagsby, a leathery grin on his face, stood off one side. He still held his long-barrelled rifle, which he presented at whoever neared him.
“I tell you, look out!” he kept saying over and over. “I’m shootin’ lunatics to-day; and apparently there’s plenty game to choose from.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE CAMP ON THE PORCUPINE
We should all have liked to start right in digging, but Bagsby strenuously opposed this.
“You-all have a rich diggings yere,” said he; “and you want to stay a while and git the most there is out of them. And if you’re going to do that, you’ve got to get a good ready. You’ve got make a decent camp, and a stockade for the hosses at night; and if you want yore grub to last you more than a month there’s got to be some reg’lar hunting and fishing done.”
“That’ll take a week!” cried Johnny impatiently.
“Or more,” agreed Bagsby with entire complacence. “You can bull at it and go to t’aring up the scenery if you want to; but you won’t last long.”
Unpalatable as this advice seemed, with all the loose gold lying about, we ended by adopting it. Indeed, we added slightly to our self-imposed tasks by determining on the construction of cradles. Yank had figured out a scheme having to do with hollowed logs and canvas with cleats that would obviate the need of lumber. We deputed Johnny to help him. Bagsby and Vasquez were to hunt and fish for the general benefit, while the rest of us put up a stockade, or corral, and erected a cabin.
I must confess the labour was pleasant. We had plenty of axes, and four of us were skilled in their use. Personally I like nothing better than the exercise of swinging a keen blade, the feeling of skillful accuracy and of nicely adjusted effort. We felled dozens, hundreds, of tall young pines eight inches to a foot in diameter, and planted them upright in a trench to form a stockade. Then we ran up a rough sort of cabin of two rooms. Yank, somewhat hampered by Johnny, finished his cradles, and turned in to help us. Bagsby and Vasquez brought in several deer and an elk, and trapped many quail and hares. We fared royally, worked healthfully in the shade of our trees, and enjoyed huge smokes and powwows around our fire of an evening. Every night we drove the horses within the enclosure; and slept heavily.
Always in the background of consciousness lay the gold, the incredibly abundant gold. It coloured our dreams, it gilded our labour. As we drew to the end of our construction work, I really believe we experienced a slight, a very slight, feeling of regret that this fine flavour of anticipation was so nearly at an end. However, I noticed that though we completed the house at three of the afternoon, we none of us showed any disposition to wait for the morrow. We promptly lugged one of Yank’s log cradles to the border of the stream and put in two hours washing.
The results were most encouraging, for we gained in that short time nearly two ounces of flake gold.
That evening we reviewed our situation carefully. The older heads of the party–Yank, Bagsby, Don Gaspar, and Missouri Jones–overruled our young desire to jump into things headlong.
“If this camp is going to get on right,” said Yank, “we got to make some provision for working right. Somebody’s got to be in camp all the time, that’s sure–to cook some decent meals, do the odd chores, and keep an eye on the stock.” Bagsby nodded emphatically at this. “And somebody’s got to rustle game and fish. Yere’s nine husky men to eat. If we leave one man in camp and two to hunt, we have six left for gold washing. That’s three to a cradle, and that’s just right.”
We came to that, too; and so settled into our routine. Bagsby was the only permanent office-holder among us. He was unanimously elected the official hunter. The rest of us agreed to take turn about at the other jobs. It was further agreed to increase our chances by utilizing the cradles at two totally different kinds of diggings. One we located on the bar to wash out the shingle. The other we carried to a point opposite the dry ravine in which I had found my three little nuggets.
Don Gaspar had worked like a nailer at the construction although he was utterly unskilled. Now at the end of the week he was worn out, although he stoutly maintained he was as good as ever. This high-bred, energetic gentleman we had all come to admire, both for his unfailing courtesy and his uncomplaining acceptance of hardships to which evidently he had never been accustomed. Exactly why he underwent the terrible exertions incidental to gold finding I have never quite fathomed. I do not believe he needed money; and I never saw one of his race fond of hard physical work. Indeed, he was the only member of his class I ever met who would work. The truth of the matter probably lies somewhere between an outcropping of the old adventurous conquistadore spirit and the fascination of the golden metal itself, quite apart from its dollars-and-cents value. Unanimously we voted in Don Gaspar as camp keeper for the first week. We wanted to give him a rest; but I do not think we pleased him. However, he bowed to our decision with his usual gracious courtesy. As hunting companion for Bagsby we appointed Missouri Jones, with the understanding that every two days that office was to have a new incumbent. Johnny, McNally, and I took charge of the dry wash, and the rest of the party tackled the bar. Of course we all–except Bagsby–were to share equally.
Unless the wash should prove very productive we would have the worst end of it, for we had to carry the pay dirt down to the stream’s edge. For the purpose we used the pack-sacks–or alforjas, as the Spaniards call them. Each held about sixty or seventy pounds of dirt. We found this a sweaty and stumbly task–to stagger over the water-smoothed boulders of the wash, out across the shingle to the edge of the stream. There one of us dumped his burden into the cradle; and we proceeded to wash it out. We got the “colour” at once in the residuary black sand.
All morning we laboured manfully, and discovered a brand new set of muscles. By comparison our former toil of mere digging and washing seemed light and pleasurable exercise.
“If this stuff don’t run pretty high,” grunted McNally, wiping the sweat from his eyes, “it’s me voting for the bar. We can’t stand all day of this.”
He heaved the contents of his pack-sack into the cradle, and shook it disgustedly. Suddenly his jaw dropped and his eye widened with so poignant an expression that we both begged him, in alarm, to tell us what was the matter.
“Now, will you look at that!” he cried.
We followed the direction of his gaze, but saw only the meadow, and the horses feeding in it, and the thin smoke beyond, where Don Gaspar was bending his proud Castilian spirit to attend to fried steak and flapjacks.
“Look at those horses!” cried McNally with growing indignation.
“What’s the matter with them?” cried Johnny and I in a breath.
“Matter with them! Nothing!” cried McNally with comical disgust. “The matter’s with us.” He rapped his knuckles on his head. “Solid, all the way through!” said he. “Why, save from nat’ral born human imbelicity, should horses be living like gentlemen while gentlemen are working like horses!”
We took the hint. That afternoon we saddled the pack-horses and led them, laden with the dirt, back and forth between the ravine and the cradle.
All of us worked until rather later in the day than usual… The hunters, too, did not return until dark. We weighed the results of our labour with eager interest. From our cradle we had taken eleven ounces, while those working the bar had gained just over nine. That was a good day’s work, and we were much elated.
“And most any time,” exulted Johnny, “we’ll run into a big pocket with thousands.”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE INDIANS
Although we did not immediately run into the expected thousands, nor did the promise of that first glorious day of discovery quite fulfil itself, nevertheless our new diggings turned out to be very rich. We fell into routine; and the days and weeks slipped by. Bagsby and one companion went out every day to hunt or to fish. We took turns at a vacation in camp. Every night we “blew” our day’s collection of sand, weighed the gold, and packed it away. Our accumulations were getting to be very valuable.
For a month we lived this idyllic life quite unmolested, and had gradually come to feel that we were so far out of the world that nothing would ever disturb us. The days seemed all alike, clear, sparkling, cloudless. It was my first experience with the California climate, and these things were a perpetual wonder to my New England mind.
Then one day when I was camp keeper, at the upper end of our long meadow, a number of men emerged from the willows and hesitated uncertainly. They were too far away to be plainly distinguishable, but I believed in taking no chances, so I fired my revolver to attract the attention of my companions. They looked up from their labour, saw the men, and promptly came into camp.
The group still hesitated at the edge of the thicket. Then one of them waved something white. We waved in return; whereupon they advanced slowly in our direction.
As they neared we saw them to be Indians. Their leader held before him a stick to which had been tied a number of white feathers. As they approached us they began to leap and dance to the accompaniment of a weird rising and falling chant. They certainly did not look very formidable, with their heterogeneous mixture of clothing, their round, black, stupid faces and their straight hair. Most of them were armed simply with bows and arrows, but three carried specimens of the long Spanish musket.
Buck Barry promptly sallied out to meet them, and shook hands with the foremost. They then advanced to where we were gathered and squatted on the ground. They were certainly a villainous and dirty looking lot of savages, short, thickset, round faced, heavy featured, with coarse, black, matted hair and little twinkling eyes. A more brutish lot of human beings I had never seen; and I was almost deceived into thinking them too stupid to be dangerous. The leaders had on remnants of civilized clothing, but the rank and file were content with scraps of blanket, old ragged coats, single shirts, and the like. The oldest man produced a long pipe from beneath his blanket, filled it with a few grains of coarse tobacco, lighted it by means of a coal from our fire, puffed twice on it, and passed it to me. I perforce had to whiff at it also, though the necessity nearly turned my stomach. I might next have given it to one of our own party, but I did not want to deprive him of my own first hand sensation, so I handed it back to another of the visitors for fresh inoculation, as it were. Evidently I had by accident hit on acceptable etiquette, as deep grunts of satisfaction testified. After we had had a whiff all around, the chief opened negotiations in Spanish. Most of us by now had learned enough of it from our intercourse with Don Gaspar and Vasquez to understand without interpretation.
The Indians said they wanted to trade.
We replied that we saw nothing they might trade with us.
In return they produced some roots and several small bags of pine nuts.
We then explained that we were reduced in ammunition, and had little food.
Don Gaspar here interpolated hastily, saying that in his judgment it would be absolutely necessary that we made some sort of a present to avoid the appearance of intending an affront. Buck Barry and Jones seemed instantly to accept this necessity.
“Give them two or three of the saddle blankets,” suggested Barry, after a moment’s thought. “We will have several light hosses going out; and if we have to pad the saddles we can git along with skins or something.”
We gave our visitors the blankets, therefore. They seemed well pleased, arose, and shortly made a primitive sort of a camp a short distance outside our stockade. We did no more washing that day. About five o’clock our hunters came in with the best meat of a blacktail deer. Bagsby listened attentively to our account of the interview. Then he took a hindquarter of the newly killed buck and departed for the Indians’ camp, where he stayed for an hour.
“I don’t think they are out for meanness,” he announced when he returned. “They tell me this yere is on a sort of short cut from some of the Truckee lakes down to their villages. But we got to keep a sharp eye on our horses; and we got to stand guard to-night.”
Very early in the morning, when we were just up, several of the elders came over to tell us that some of the young men would stay to work for us, if we so desired. We replied that we had no goods with which to pay for work. Shortly after, the whole tribe vanished down river.
For two nights Bagsby insisted on standing guard, and on having some of us take turns at it. Then we declined flatly to do so any longer. The Indians had gone far downstream, as their trail indicated to our hunters, and had shown no signs of even hesitating on the way. We fell into our old routine, and laughed at Bagsby when he shook his head.
About this time Johnny and McNally, scrambling of a Sunday for the sake of a view, stumbled on a small ravine that came nearer realizing our hoped-for strike than anything we had yet seen. After “puddling out” a few potfuls of the pay dirt, we decided to move the cradles. It was not over a half mile from camp, but was out of sight of the stockade. The move was the occasion for a hot discussion. Bagsby wanted to reorganize, and we were reluctant.
“Thar ought to be two men in camp,” said he, “and thar ought never to be less’n three together out hunting. And that’s my idee–that ye’re paying me money for.”
“That leaves us only four men to work the cradles,” I objected. “Four men out of nine working.”
“Well, thar won’t be no men out of nine a-workin’ if you don’t watch out,” predicted Bagsby. “You-all forgit this is a self-supportin’ community. We got to work for our living, as well as for gold.”
“The hunters might go out less,” suggested McNally.
“The miners might eat less, then,” replied Bagsby grimly. “This ain’t what you’d call the best sort of a game country.”
We came to it, of course, though with much grumbling. It seemed an almost excuseless waste of good energy; a heavy price in economic efficiency to pay for insurance against what seemed a very remote peril. But we did not know, and our uncertainty gave way.
“But hang it!” cried Johnny, “here’s more gold than a hundred men could begin to handle, and we’re wasting more than half our resources.”
“It do seem so,” agreed Yank with his accustomed slow philosophy. “But we can put in longer hours because we rest oftener.”
A week passed, and we had almost forgotten our chance visitors. One day the two Spaniards, Buck Barry and I were at the cradle; Bagsby, Yank, and McNally were the hunters for the day. Johnny and Missouri Jones kept camp.
We had had a most successful morning, and were just stacking our tools preparatory to returning to camp for dinner. Buck Barry was standing near some small sage bushes at the upper end of the diggings. He was just in the act of lighting a freshly filled pipe, when he stopped as though petrified, the burning match suspended above the bowl of his pipe. Then he turned quickly toward the sage brush; and as he did so a bow twanged and an arrow sang past his head so close as actually to draw blood from the lobe of his ear. With a roar of anger Buck Barry raised his pickaxe and charged into the bush. We saw a figure rise from the ground, dash away, stumble flat. Before the man could get up again Buck Barry was upon him, and the pickaxe descended. At the same instant we heard a series of whoops and two shots in rapid succession from the direction of camp. Buck Barry came bounding out of the sage brush, and seized his rifle from under the bush where we had kept them.
“Come on!” he panted. “Let’s get out of this!”
We ran as hard as we could go for a hundred yards, or until we had reached the flat of the river bottom. Then we paused, uncertain as to just what next to do.
“Wait a minute,” said I. “I’ll just take a look,” and hurried up a little spur-knoll to the right. From that elevation I instantly caught sight of a crowd of Indians coming up the valley at full speed. Most of them were on horseback, but a number loped along on foot, keeping up with the animals. One look was enough. I raced down to my companions again; and we hastily took refuge in the only cover near enough to conceal us–a little clump of willows in a small, damp watercourse. There we crouched, rifles ready.
I was terribly excited. The patter of the horses was now plainly audible, though, owing to the inequalities of the ground, they could not become visible farther than a hundred yards away. I trembled violently, and cursed myself for a coward, though I really do not think I was frightened. At any rate, I became deadly cool the moment the first savage appeared; and I drew a steady bead and toppled him off his horse before any one else had got in action. The shot brought them to a stand. They had, I think, expected to find us in our ravine, and were surprised. Immediately I dropped the butt of my rifle to the ground and began reloading. A shower of arrows flew toward us, but were deflected by the criss-cross of the willows. In fact, this lacework of stout branches seemed to be an excellent sort of armour against arrows. In the meantime my companions had each dropped his man; though Vasquez had better luck than skill, as his savage was only clipped in the leg. I fired once more, and elicited a howl. There could be no missing at the distance, unless a man quite lost his head; and personally I was too scared for that. Another shower of arrows rattled in the willows; then the band broke to right and left and raced away up the hills like mad. They had no courage, and lost stomach for the fight at once when they found us prepared.
We were astonished and delighted, for we had fully expected to be ridden down. As soon as we were quite certain this sudden retreat was not a ruse, we came out from our shelter. How many wounded had made off–if any–we could not tell. Three dead bodies lay on the ground. To them we paid no attention, but, with many forebodings, hurried back to camp.
When we appeared in sight Missouri Jones ran out to meet us, his rifle over his arm.
“Where’s Johnny?” I cried.
“He was down at the river a-getting water,” said Jones, “and I ain’t seen him since.”
We all ran down to the edge of the river pool whence we drew our supply. For a moment our hearts stood still, for no Johnny was in sight. Then he arose dripping from the middle of the pool.
“This water’s cold,” he remarked conversationally. “I think I’ll come out. Anybody hurt?”
He waded ashore, and shook himself like a dog.
“I didn’t hear ’em until they were right on top of me; and I couldn’t get away without being seen,” said he; “so I just waded out and imitated a rock with my head.”
We roared with laughter by way of relief.
“It isn’t the first time, Johnny,” said I.
“That’s all right,” put in Missouri Jones. “This is no joke. They got three of our hosses.”
Then he told us his experience.
“I was just a-browning of the venison,” he explained, “when I happened to look up, and thar was three of our hosses running off, tails up, and a half dozen Injuns a hoss-back driving ’em. I let drive with old Betsey and Johnny’s gun, but they was about out of range. While I was looking after them about forty Injuns went past sky-hootin’. I suppose they thought the first lot had all the hosses, and so they didn’t stop. The rest of the hosses, luckily, was asleep behind the cottonwoods. You bet I didn’t call their attention to myself.”
He exhibited the greatest satisfaction when he learned that we had accounted for four.
“That’s something like Injun fighting,” he observed, “though these are a pore, spiritless lot. The whole bag ain’t worth more than one of them good hosses.”
We did no more gold washing that day, but remained close in camp, consumed with anxiety for our companions. From time to time we fired a rifle, with the idea of warning them that something was amiss. The remaining half-dozen horses we ran into the corral.
Night fell and still the hunters did not return. We were greatly alarmed and distressed, but we could not think of anything to do, for we had not the least idea in what direction to look.
“Bagsby and Yank are old hands,” speculated Missouri Jones consolingly. “And the fact that Injuns is abroad would make them slow and careful.”
None of us felt like turning in. We all sat outside on the ground around a little fire.
Toward midnight we heard voices; and a moment later Yank and Bagsby strode in out of the darkness.
“Where’s McNally?” Yank instantly demanded. “Hasn’t he come in yet?”
We told him we had seen nothing of the missing man.
“Well, he’ll drift in pretty soon,” said Bagsby. “We lost him in the darkness not two hours back.”
They set to frying some venison steak. Excitedly and in antiphony Johnny and I detailed the day’s adventure. Both the backwoodsmen listened in silence, but without suspending their cooking.
“They didn’t bother McNally,” Bagsby decided. “They’d drive those hosses away five or six miles before they’d stop; and McNally was with us just a little piece back. He’ll be in by the time the venison is cooked.”
But he was not; nor by an hour later. Then we decided that we must go out to look for him.
“We can’t see nothin’ till daylight,” said Bagsby, “but we can get started back for the last place we saw him.”
It was now about one o’clock in the morning. Bagsby appointed Vasquez, Missouri Jones, Buck Barry, Yank and myself to accompany him. Don Gaspar was suffering from a slight attack of malarial fever; and Johnny, to his vast disgust, was left to hold him company. We took each a horse, which we had to ride bareback and with a twisted rope “war halter.”
Bagsby led the way, and we followed closely nose to tail. It was an interesting and wonderful experience, had I had more attention to give it, for we rode mysteriously neck deep in velvet darkness over strange hills, and awful shapes rose mysteriously, and the sky silvered with stars like the glittering of little waves. But my mind was filled with dread and foreboding, and a great anxiety for our merry, blue-eyed companion, and a very considerable wonder as to how our guide managed to find his way.
