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CHAPTER XXXI
THE EXPRESS MESSENGER

We slept late the following morning, and awoke tired, as though we had been on a long journey.

“Now,” said Johnny, when our after-breakfast pipes had been lit, “we’ve got to get together. There’s two serious questions before the house: the first and most important is, who and what is Danny Randall?”

“I agree with you there,” said I heartily.

“And the second is, what are we going to do with ourselves?”

“I’m going to begin mining,” I stated.

“All right, old strong-arm; I am not. I’m dead sick of cricking my back and blistering my hands. It isn’t my kind of work; and the only reason I ever thought it was is because the stuff we dig is called gold.”

“You aren’t going to lie down?” I cried incredulously.

“No, old sport, I’m not going to lie down. I came out here to make my fortune; but I don’t know that I’ve got to dig gold to do that.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That I don’t know,” confessed Johnny, “but I’ll be able to inform you in a few days. I suppose you’ll be going back to the Porcupine?”

“I don’t know about that,” said I seriously. “I don’t believe the Porcupine is any richer than these diggings, and it’s mighty uncertain. I believe a man’s more apt to keep what he gets here, and there’s a lot more company, and─”

“In other words, you’re going to stick around old Yank or know the reason why!” interrupted Johnny with a little smile.

I flushed, hesitated, then blurted out: “Well, yes. I shouldn’t be easy about him here by himself. It strikes me this is a tough camp, and almost anything’s likely to happen.”

“I feel the same way,” confessed Johnny. “We’re all partners. All right; ‘stick’ it is. We’ll have to be mighty plausible to keep Yank quiet. That’s agreed,” he grinned. “Now I’m going up to town to find out about Danny Randall, and incidentally to look around for something to do. You’re a good steady liar; you go over and talk to Yank.”

We separated until noon. I had no great difficulty with Yank, either because I was, as Johnny said, a plausible liar, or because Yank was secretly glad to have us near. After visiting with him a while I took the axe and set about the construction of a cradle. Johnny returned near twelve o’clock to find me at this useful occupation.

“As to Danny Randall,” he began at once, squatting near by: “Origin lost in mists of obscurity. First known in this country as guide to a party of overland immigrants before the gold discovery. One of the original Bear Flag revolutionists. Member of Fremont’s raiders in the south. Showed up again at Sonoma and headed a dozen forays after the horse-thieving Indians and half-breeds in the San Joaquin. Seems now to follow the mines. Guaranteed the best shot with rifle or pistol in the state. Guaranteed the best courage and the quietest manners in the state. Very eminent and square in his profession. That’s his entire history.”

“What is his profession?” I asked.

“He runs the Bella Union.”

“A gambler?” I cried, astonished.

“Just so–a square gambler.”

I digested this in silence for a moment.

“Did you discover anything for yourself?” I asked at last.

“Best job ever invented,” said Johnny triumphantly, “at three ounces a day; and I can’t beat that at your beastly digging.”

“Yes?” I urged.

“I invented it myself, too,” went on Johnny proudly. “You remember what Randall–or the doctor–said about the robberies, and the bodies of the drowned men floating? Well, every man carries his dust around in a belt because he dare not do anything else with it. I do myself, and so do you; and you’ll agree that it weighs like the mischief. So I went to Randall and I suggested that we start an express service to get the stuff out to bank with some good firm in San Francisco. He fell in with the idea in a minute. My first notion was that we take it right through to San Francisco ourselves; but he says he can make satisfactory arrangements to send it in from Sacramento. That’s about sixty miles; and we’ll call it a day’s hard ride through this country, with a change of horses. So now I’m what you might call an express messenger–at three good ounces a day.”

“But you’ll be killed and robbed!” I cried.

Johnny’s eyes were dancing.

“Think of the fun!” said he.

“You’re a rotten shot,” I reminded him.

“I’m to practise, under Danny Randall, from now until the first trip.”

“When is that?”

“Do you think we’ll advertise the date? Of course I’d tell you, Jim; but honestly I don’t know yet.”

Since the matter seemed settled, and Johnny delighted, I said no more. My cradle occupied me for three days longer. In that length of time Johnny banged away an immense quantity of ammunition, much of it under the personal supervision of Danny Randall. The latter had his own ideas as to the proper practice. He utterly refused to let Johnny shoot at a small mark or linger on his aim.

“It’s only fairly accurate work you want, but quick,” said he. “If you practise always getting hold of your revolver the same way, and squeeze the trigger instead of jerking it, you’ll do. If you run against robbers it isn’t going to be any target match.”

When my cradle was finished, I went prospecting with a pan; and since this was that golden year 1849, and the diggings were neither crowded nor worked out, I soon found ‘colour.’ There I dragged my cradle, and set quite happily to work. Since I performed all my own labour, the process seemed slow to me after the quick results of trained cooperation; yet my cleanings at night averaged more than my share used to be under the partnership. So I fell into settled work, well content. A week later Johnny rode up on a spirited and beautiful horse, proud as could be over his mount.

He confided to me that it was one of the express horses; that the first trip would be very soon; and that if I desired to send out my own savings, I could do so. I was glad to do this, even though the rates were high; and we easily persuaded Yank of the advisability. Nobody anticipated any danger from this first trip, for the simple reason that few knew anything about it. Randall and his friends made up the amount that could be carried by the three men. For the first time I learned that Johnny had companions. They started from our own tent, a little after sundown. Indeed, they ate their supper with us, while their beautiful horses, head high, stared out into the growing darkness. One of the express riders was a slight, dark youth whom I had never seen before. In the other I was surprised to recognize Old Hickory Pine. He told me his people had “squatted” not far from Sacramento, but that he had come up into the hills on summons by Danny Randall. The fact impressed me anew as to Randall’s wide knowledge, for the Pines had not been long in the country.

The trip went through without incident. Johnny returned four days later aglow with the joy of that adventurous ride through the dark. Robbers aside, I acknowledge I should not have liked that job. I am no horseman, and I confess that at full speed I am always uneasy as to how a four-hoofed animal is going successfully to plant all four of them. And these three boys, for they were nothing else, had to gallop the thirty miles of the road to Sacramento that lay in the mountains before dawn caught them in the defiles.

Johnny seemed to glory in it, however. Danny Randall had arranged for a change of horses; and the three express riders liked to dash up at full speed to the relay station, fling themselves and their treasure bags from one beast to the other, and be off again with the least possible expenditure of time. The incoming animal had hardly come to a stand before the fresh animal was off. There could have been no real occasion for quite so much haste; but they liked to do it. The trips were made at irregular intervals; and the riders left camp at odd times. Indeed, no hour of the twenty-four was unlikely to be that of their start. Each boy carried fifty pounds of gold dust distributed in four pouches. This was a heavy weight, but it was compensated for to some extent by the fact that they rode very light saddles. Thus every trip the enormous sum of thirty-five thousand dollars went out in charge of the three.

The first half dozen journeys were more or less secret, so that the express service did not become known to the general public. Then the news inevitably leaked out. Danny Randall thereupon openly received shipments and gave receipts at the Bella Union. It seemed to me only a matter of time before the express messengers should be waylaid, for the treasure they carried was worth any one’s while. I spoke to Randall about it one day.

“If Amijo or Murietta or Dick Temple were in this part of the country, I’d agree with you,” said he seriously, “but they are not, and there’s nobody in this lot of cheap desperadoes around here that has the nerve. Those three boys have a big reputation as fighters; their horses are good; they constantly vary their route and their times of starting; and Johnny in especial has a foxy head on him.”

“The weak point is the place they change horses,” said I.

Randall looked at me quickly, as though surprised.

“Why, that’s true,” said he; “not a doubt of it. But I’ve got five armed men there to look after just that. And another thing you must remember: they know that Danny Randall is running this show.”

Certainly, thought I, Danny at least appreciates himself; and yet, after all, I do not think he in any way exaggerated the terror his name inspired.

CHAPTER XXXII
ITALIAN BAR

As now we are all settled down to our various occupations, Yank of patience, Johnny of delighted adventuring, and myself of dogged industry, it might be well to give you some sort of a notion of Italian Bar, as this new camp was called. I saw a great deal of it, more than I really wished, for out of working hours I much frequented it in the vague hope of keeping tabs on its activities for Johnny’s sake.

It was situated on one of the main overland trails, and that was possibly the only reason its rich diggings had not been sooner discovered–it was too accessible! The hordes of immigrants dragged through the dusty main street, sometimes in an almost unending procession. More of them hereafter; they were in general a sad lot. Some of them were always encamped in the flats below town; and about one of the stores a number of them could be seen trying to screw their resolution up to paying the appalling prices for necessities. The majority had no spare money, and rarely any spirit left; and nobody paid much attention to them except to play practical jokes on them. Very few if any of this influx stopped at Italian Bar. Again it was too accessible. They had their vision fixed hypnotically on the West, and westward they would push until they bumped the Pacific Ocean. Of course a great many were no such dumb creatures, but were capable, self-reliant men who knew what they were about and where they were going. Nobody tried to play any practical jokes on them.

Of the regular population I suppose three fourths were engaged in gold washing. The miners did not differ from those of their class anywhere else; that is to say, they were of all nationalities, all classes of life, and all degrees of moral responsibility. They worked doggedly and fast in order to get as much done as possible before the seasonal rains. When night fell the most of them returned to their cabins and slept the sleep of the weary; with a weekly foray into town of a more or less lurid character. They had no time for much else, in their notion; and on that account were, probably unconsciously, the most selfish community I ever saw. There was a great deal of sickness, and many deaths, but unless a man had a partner or a friend to give him some care, he might die in his cabin for all the attention any one else would pay him. In the same spirit only direct personal interest would arouse in any of them the least indignation over the only too frequent killings and robberies.

“They found a man shot by the Upper Bend this morning,” remarks one to his neighbour.

“That so? Who was he?” asks the other.

“Don’t know. Didn’t hear,” is the reply.

The barroom or street killings, which averaged in number at least two or three a week, while furnishing more excitement, aroused very little more real interest. Open and above-board homicides of that sort were always the result of differences of opinion. If the victim had a friend, the latter might go gunning for his pal’s slayer; but nobody had enough personal friends to elevate any such row to the proportions of a general feud.

All inquests were set aside until Sunday. A rough and ready public meeting invariably brought in the same verdict–“justifiable self-defence.” At these times, too, popular justice was dispensed, but carelessly and not at all in the spirit of the court presided over by John Semple at Hangman’s Gulch. A general air of levity characterized these occasions, which might strike as swift and deadly a blow as a shaft of lightning, or might puff away as harmlessly as a summer zephyr. Many a time, until I learned philosophically to stay away, did my blood boil over the haphazard way these men had of disposing of some poor creature’s destinies.

“Here’s a Mex thief,” observed the chair. “What do you want done with him?”

“Move we cut off his ears!” yelled a voice from the back of the crowd.

“Make it fifty lashes!” shouted another.

A wrangle at once started between the advocates of cropping and the whip. The crowd wearied of it.

“Let the ─ ─ ─ go!” suggested someone.

And this motion was carried with acclamation. No evidence was offered or asked as to the extent of the man’s guilt, or indeed if he was guilty at all!

The meeting had a grim sense of humour, and enjoyed nothing more than really elaborate foolery. Such as, for example, the celebrated case of Pio Chino’s bronco.

Pio Chino was a cargador running a train of pack-mules into some back-country camp. His bell mare was an ancient white animal with long shaggy hair, ewe neck, bulging joints, a placid wall eye, the full complement of ribs, and an extraordinarily long Roman nose ending in a pendulous lip. Yet fifteen besotted mules thought her beautiful, and followed her slavishly, in which fact lay her only value. Now somebody, probably for a joke, “lifted” this ancient wreck from poor Chino on the ground that it had never been Chino’s property anyway. Chino, with childlike faith in the dignity of institutions, brought the matter before the weekly court.

That body took charge with immense satisfaction. It appointed lawyers for the prosecution and the defence.

Prosecution started to submit Chino’s claim.

Defence immediately objected on the ground that Chino, being a person of colour, was not qualified to testify against a white man.

This point was wrangled over with great relish for an hour or more. Then two solemn individuals were introduced as experts to decide whether Chino was a man of colour, or, as the prosecution passionately maintained, a noble, great-minded and patriotic California member of the Caucasian race.

“Gentlemen,” the court addressed this pair, “is there any infallible method by which your science is able to distinguish between a nigger and a white man?”

“There is,” answered one of the “experts.”

“What?”

“The back teeth of a white man have small roots reaching straight down,” expounded the “expert” solemnly, “while those of a negro have roots branching in every direction.”

“And how do you expect to determine this case?”

“By extracting one or more of the party’s back teeth,” announced the “expert” gravely, at the same time producing a huge pair of horseshoeing nippers.

Chino uttered a howl, but was violently restrained from bolting. He was understood to say that he didn’t want that mare. I should not have been a bit surprised if they had carried the idea of extraction to a finish; but the counsel for defence interposed, waiving the point. He did not want the fun to come to that sort of a termination.

Prosecution then offered the evidence of Chino’s brand. Now that old mare was branded from muzzle to tail, and on both sides. She must have been sold and resold four or five times for every year of her long and useful life. The network of brands was absolutely indecipherable.

“Shave her!” yelled some genius.

That idea caught hold. The entire gathering took an interest in the operation, which half a dozen men performed. They shaved that poor old mare from nose to the tip of her ratlike tail. Not even an eye-winker was left to her. She resembled nothing so much as one of the sluglike little Mexican hairless dogs we had seen on the Isthmus. The brands now showed plainly enough, but were as complicated as ever in appearance. Thunders of mock forensic oratory shook the air. I remember defence acknowledged that in that multiplicity of lines the figure of Chino’s brand could be traced; but pointed to the stars of the heavens and the figures of their constellations to prove what could be done by a vivid imagination in evolving fancy patterns. By this time it was late, and court was adjourned until next week.

The following Sunday, after a tremendous legal battle, conducted with the relishing solemnity with which Americans like to take their fooling, it was decided to call in an expert on brands, and a certain California rancher ten miles distant was agreed upon.

“But,” objected the defence, “he is a countryman of the complainant. However honest, he will nevertheless sympathize with his own blood. Before the case is put before him, he should view these brands as an unprejudiced observer. I suggest that they be transcribed to paper and submitted to him without explanation.”

This appealed to the crowd. The astonished mare was again led out, and careful drawings made of her most remarkable sides. Then the case was again adjourned one week.

On that day the Californian was on hand, very grave, very much dressed up, very flattered at being called as an expert in anything. The drawing was laid before him.

“Don Luis,” said the court formally, “what do you, as expert, make of that?”

Don Luis bent his grave Spanish head over the document for some minutes. Then he turned it upside down and examined it again; sideways; the other end. When he looked up a little twinkle of humour lurked deep in his black eyes, but his face was solemn and ceremonious.

“Well, Don Luis,” repeated the court, “what do you make of it?”

“Señor,” replied Don Luis courteously, “it looks to me like a most excellent map of Sonora.”

When the crowd had quieted down after this, the court ordered the animal brought forth.

“May it please y’r honour, the critter got a chill and done died,” announced the cadaverous Missourian, to whose care the animal had been confided.

“H’m,” said the court. “Well, here’s the court’s decision in this case. Pio Chino fined one drink for taking up our valuable time; Abe Sellers fined one drink for claiming such an old crow-bait on any grounds; Sam is fined one drink for not putting a blanket on that mare.” (“I only got one blanket myself!” cried the grieved Missourian.) “The fines must be paid in to the court at the close of this session.”

Hugely tickled, the meeting arose. Pio Chino, to whom the tidings of his bell mare’s demise was evidently news, stood the picture of dejected woe. His downcast figure attracted the careless attention of one of the men.

“Here boys!” he yelled, snatching off his hat. “This ain’t so damn funny for Chino here!” He passed the hat among the crowd. They tossed in gold, good-naturedly, abundantly, with a laugh. Nobody knows what amount was dumped into the astounded Chino’s old sombrero; but the mare was certainly not worth over fifteen dollars. If some one had dragged Chino before that same gathering under unsupported accusation of any sort, it would as cheerfully and thoughtlessly have hung him.

Of the gambling places, one only–that conducted by Danny Randall and called the Bella Union–inspired any sort of confidence. The other two were frequented by a rough, insolent crew, given to sudden silences in presence of newcomers, good-humoured after a wild and disconcerting fashion, plunging heavily at the gaming tables and drinking as heavily at the bars. This is not to imply that any strong line of demarcation existed between the habitues of one or the other of these places. When an inhabitant of Italian Bar started out for relaxation, he visited everything there was to visit, and drifted impartially between Morton’s, Randall’s Bella Union, and the Empire. There was a good deal of noise and loud talk in any of them; and occasionally a pistol shot. This was generally a signal for most of the bystanders to break out through the doors and windows, and for the gayly inclined to shoot out the lights. The latter feat has often been cited admiringly as testifying to a high degree of marksmanship, but as a matter of fact the wind and concussion from the heavy revolver bullets were quite sufficient to put out any lamp to which the missiles passed reasonably close. Sometimes these affrays resulted in material for the Sunday inquests; but it is astonishing how easily men can miss each other at close range. Most of the shootings were the results of drunken quarrels. For that reason the professed gunmen were rarely involved. One who possessed an established reputation was let alone by the ordinary citizen; and most severely alone by the swaggering bullies, of whom there were not a few. These latter found prey for their queer stripe of vanity among the young, the weak, and the drunken. I do not hesitate to say that any man of determined character could keep out of trouble even in the worst days of the camp, provided he had no tempting wealth, attended to his own affairs, and maintained a quiet though resolute demeanour.

When in camp Johnny and his two companions shone as bright particular stars. They were only boys, and they had blossomed out in wonderful garments. Johnny had a Californian sombrero with steeple crown loaded with silver ornaments, and a pair of Spanish spurs heavily inlaid with the same metal, a Chinese scarf about his neck, and a short jacket embroidered with silver thread. But most astonishing of all was a large off-colour diamond set in a ring, through which he ran the ends of his scarf. Parenthetically, it was from this that he got his sobriquet of Diamond Jack. I had a good deal of fun laughing at Johnny, but he didn’t mind.

“This diamond,” he pointed out, “is just as good as gold dust, it’s easier carried, and I can have some fun out of it.”

I am afraid he and Old Hickory Pine and Cal Marsh did a bit of swaggering while in town. They took a day to the down trip, and jogged back in a day and a half, stopping in Sacramento only the extra half day. Then they rested with us one day, and were off the next. Thus they accomplished seven or eight trips in the month. Both Old and Cal had the reputation of being quick, accurate shots, although I have never seen them perform. As the three of them were absolutely inseparable they made a formidable combination that nothing but an organized gang would care to tackle. Consequently they swaggered as much as they pleased. At bottom they were good, clean, attractive boys, who were engaged in an adventure that was thrilling enough in sober reality, but which they loved to deck forth in further romance. They one and all assumed the stern, aloof, lofty pose of those whose affairs were too weighty to permit mingling with ordinary amusements. Their speech was laconic, their manners grave, their attitude self-contained. It was a good thing, I believe; for outside the fact that it kept them out of quarrels, it kept them also out of drinking and gambling.

I made many acquaintances of course, but only a few friends. The best of these were Dr. Rankin and Danny Randall. Strangely enough, these two were great pals. Danny had a little room back of the Bella Union furnished out with a round table, a dozen chairs, and a sofa. Here he loved to retire with his personal friends to sip drinks, smoke, and to discuss all sorts of matters. A little glassless window gave into the Bella Union, and as the floor of the little room was raised a foot or so, Danny sat where he could see everything that went on. These gatherings varied in number, but never exceeded the capacity of the dozen chairs. I do not know how Danny had caused it to be understood that these were invitation affairs, but understood it was, and no one ever presumed to intrude unbidden into the little room. Danny selected his company as the fancy took him.

As to why he should so often have chosen me I must again confess ignorance. Perhaps because I was a good listener. If so, the third member of a very frequent triumvirate, Dr. Rankin, was invited for the opposite quality. The doctor was a great talker, an analyst of conditions, and a philosophical spectator. The most frequent theme of our talks was the prevalence of disorder. On this subject the doctor had very decided views.

“There is disorder because we shirk our duty as a community,” he stated, “and we shirk our duty as a community because we believe in our hearts that we aren’t a community. What does Jones or Smith or Robinson or anybody else really care for Italian Bar as a place; or, indeed, for California as a place? Not a tinker’s damn! He came out here in the first place to make his pile, and in the second place to have a good time. He isn’t dependent on any one’s good opinion, as he used to be at home. He refuses to be bothered with responsibilities and he doesn’t need to be. Why a pan miner needn’t even speak to his next neighbour unless he wants to; and a cradle miner need bother only with his partners!”

“Miners’ meetings have done some pretty good legislation,” I pointed out.

“Legislation; yes!” cried the doctor. “Haven’t you discovered that the American has a perfect genius for organization? Eight coal heavers on a desert island would in a week have a full list of officers, a code of laws, and would be wrangling over ridiculous parliamentary points of order in their meetings. That’s just the trouble. The ease with which Americans can sketch out a state on paper is an anodyne to conscience. We get together and pass a lot of resolutions, and go away with a satisfied feeling that we’ve really done something.”

“But I believe a camp like this may prove permanent,” objected Randall.

“Exactly. And by that very fact a social obligation comes into existence. Trouble is, every mother’s son tries to escape it in his own case. What is every one’s business is no one’s business. Every fellow thinks he’s got away from being bothered with such things. Sooner or later he’ll find out he hasn’t, and then he’ll have to pay for his vacation.”

“We never stood for much thieving at Hangman’s Gulch,” I interposed.

“What did you do?”

“We whipped and sent them about their business.”

“To some other camp. You merely passed on your responsibility; you didn’t settle it. Your whipping merely meant turning loose a revengeful and desperate man. Your various banishments merely meant your exchanging these fiends with the other camps. It’s like scattering the coyotes that come around your fire.”

“What would you do, Doctor?” asked Randall quietly; “we have no regular law.”

“Why not? Why don’t you adopt a little regular law? You need about three in this camp–against killing, against thievery, and against assault. Only enforce in every instance, as far as possible.”

“You can’t get this crowd to take time investigating the troubles of some man they never heard of.”

“Exactly.”

“And if they get too bad,” said Danny, “we’ll have to get the stranglers busy.”

“Confound it, man!” roared Dr. Rankin, beating the table, “that’s just what I’ve been trying to tell you. You ought not to care so much for punishing as for deterring. Don’t you know that it’s a commonplace that it isn’t the terrifying quality of the penalty that acts as a deterrent to crime, but it’s the certainty of the penalty! If a horse thief knows that there’s merely a chance the community will get mad enough to hang him, he’ll take that chance in hopes this may not be the time. If, on the other hand, he knows that every time he steals a horse he’s going to be caught and fined even, he thinks a long time before he steals it.”

“All that’s true, Doctor,” said Danny, “as theory; but now I’m coming to bat with a little practice. Here’s the camp of Italian Bar in the year 1849. What would you do?”

“Elect the proper officers and enforce the law,” answered the doctor promptly.

“Who would you elect?”

“There are plenty of good men here.”

“Name me any one who would take the job. The good men are all washing gold; and they’re in a hurry to finish before the rains. I don’t care who you’re about to name–if anybody; this is about what he’d say: ‘I can’t afford to leave my claim; I didn’t come out here to risk my life in that sort of a row; I am leaving for the city when the rains begin, and I don’t know that I’ll come back to Italian Bar next season!’”

“Make it worth their while. Pay them,” insisted the doctor stoutly.

“And how’s the money to pay them to be collected? You’d have to create the officers of a government–and pay them.”

“Well, why not?”

“At the election, who would take interest to elect a decent man, even if you could get hold of one? Not the other decent men. They’re too busy, and too little interested. But the desperadoes and hard characters would be very much interested in getting some of their own stripe in office. The chances are they would be coming back to Italian Bar next season, especially if they had the legal machinery for keeping themselves out of trouble. You’d simply put yourself in their power.”

Dr. Rankin shook his head.

“Just the same, you’ll see that I am right,” he prophesied. “This illusion of freedom to the social obligation is only an illusion. It will have to be paid for with added violence and turmoil.”

“Why, I believe you’re right as to that, Doctor,” agreed Danny, “but I’ve discovered that often in this world a man has to pay a high price for what he gets. In fact, sometimes it’s very expedient to pay a high price.”