The Respectable Pile and an Idle Winter—Only One Street—Gambling and Drinking—A Western Communist—"Keerds"—A Sticky Wrist—Eight Hundred Per Cent—North or South—A Blow for the Old Flag—Neck or Nothing—A Compulsory Cold Bath—Not very much Damaged—Unable to get Compensation.

After a somewhat brief rest, Harry Arnold, with Bill and myself, determined upon returning to Honey Lake Valley. Nothing worthy of notice occurred until we reached Susanville, except that we travelled by night, and lay in camp during the day, to avoid the chance of discovery by any scouting party of Indians.

It was now late in the year, and as, after hearing the danger I had run, my wife was unwilling that I should so soon leave her again, we determined, with the balance of the Rangers whom we had left on the Humboldt, to pass this winter in comparative rest. That is to say, we would hunt deer for the market in Virginia City, and set a few traps.

The probability is that we arrived at this conclusion, from the fact that we had all of us more or less made money during the past year. Those of us who had been mining nearer home had done sufficiently well; while, in addition to what the three of us had been paid as guides by Colonel Connor, we had gathered a very reasonable pile of gold-dust while in the neighborhood of Idaho. Consequently, we were all of us disposed to enjoy the proceeds of our toil, and do as little hard work as possible.

My first business was, of course, to see to the comfort of the little woman whom I had been again absent from, for so many months.

Indeed, there was some surprise on the part of my friends to find me now and then declining, not only to join their hunting expeditions, but in addition sometimes refusing to form one in their raids upon the Faro and Monte banks which were run in various saloons, one of the most notorious being that in Burkett's Saloon, kept going by Heap and Hale, the John Chamberlains of Susanville. It will, probably, not astonish my readers to hear that these raids were by no means altogether flattering in their results to the skill and good fortune of the Rangers.

There is one anecdote which will not prove unamusing. It is, indeed, so characteristic of the inner life of the place, as well as of the general inner life of the mining districts, that I cannot refrain from recounting it.

Up to the present time, I have neglected to describe Susanville. It was by no means a large city, according to the Eastern notion of what a city should be. Nor, possibly, did it enjoy an over and above large share of civilized respectability.

A single street contained the whole of its actual business population. And of what was this whole visible street composed? Almost entirely of frame buildings for the retail of ardent spirits; in other words, of drinking-saloons. "Good Old Bourbon," "The Best Cognac," "Capital Rye," and other inviting appellations, of the same class, were the only evident appeals to those who chanced to pass through it, for their custom. Occasionally, indeed, you might find a liquor-store which in a measure protected a different class of business. In the front of one, you might find piles of ready-made clothing. Within another were all the appliances for three-card Monte or Faro. Here, were cigars and tobacco. This one, also, did duty as a corner-grocery.

These places were generally left to their own care, from the hour at which they were closed until the following morning.

The honesty of frontier-life protected them from being broken into.

At this time there was living in Susanville an aged settler named Pascal Taylor, but more commonly known as "Old Zac." He was an independent sort of Communist. Did he need chicken for a pot-pie, he would appropriate the fowls of his fellow-settlers without the slightest scruple. If he needed a new pair of pantaloons, it was equally indifferent to him whether he made a requisition upon the piles of clothes in front of the store of a dealer of such articles, or upon the dwellings of his nearest neighbors. However, let me do him justice. When detected, he would invariably repay the injured party in kind, by appropriating another article of the same sort and bringing it to him.

In fact, he might be termed a continual debtor to life, paying, from time to time, by incurring another debt. Whether at the close of his career his account with life might be balanced, must, nevertheless, remain a matter of considerable doubt.

Tom Long was the owner of one of the drinking-saloons, I have mentioned, as composing the line of street or road which was named Susanville. His residence was on the hill rising from one side of the line of liquor-shanties in which its regular inhabitants made money. One night, old "Zac" was standing beside the spot where Tom was dispensing liquor. He was a favorite of Tom's. For what reason he was so, it would be impossible to say. But Tom employed him to do up odd "chores" for him, and occasionally assisted him in a way which in the East might have been stigmatized as "red-hot" charity. In Susanville, it was not considered so. Old "Zac" was a privileged person. Well, the truth is, Tom was tired with the employment of the day. He wanted to quit business and retire to his home. Turning to "Zac," he pushed out the bottle and a tumbler.

"Take a drink, Zac?"

"You bet—" responded the recipient of Tom's bounty. "I say," he continued, lifting the Old Rye to his lips, "here's long life to you."

"I want to go home."

"Why in thunder don't yu go, then?"

"Zac, I think I will, if you'll 'tend business for me."

"You bet!"

"Thank you, Zac! Here's the key of the door. Mind you lock it in about half an hour, and open it again, to-morrow morning." As Tom concluded, he took a fair dose of Rye himself, to render his skin impervious to the night air. In this he was imitated by old Zac. Then putting on his coat, and taking his hat, he quitted the saloon with a cheery "Good-night, old boy!"

Now, "Zac" had no intention of remaining long after his friend and patron had gone. He had rinsed out the two glasses he and Tom had just emptied, and was on his way to the door, when four of us stepped in.

"Eh, Zac! whar's Tom?"

"Gon to hum."

"Wall, you'll du!" exclaimed Butch'. "Jest, shet the doors."

"Hi'll see to hit better than 'e will, by ha blamed sight!" said Brighton Bill.

At the moment he said this, he was striding to the back-door of the saloon, which he very coolly locked and put the huge key in one of his pockets. No sooner was this done, than, returning to the front entrance, he performed the same operation.

Butch' had meanwhile seated himself at a square deal table in one of the corners of the room.

"Whar are the keerds?"

"Here—you bet!"

Ben Painter produced the pack, and was speedily, with myself and Bill, seated at the other three sides of the table. Our gold was produced, and laid beside us. At that time, as now, paper money was an unknown quantity in California. Then we began to play.

During the whole afternoon, we had been drinking. Necessarily, after playing for some fifteen minutes, we felt somewhat dry. Butch' possibly felt drier than any of us. At any rate, he was the one who cried out:

"Bring up the licker, Zac!"

The old fellow brought us the Rye and four glasses on a tray. We drank. But when he had again removed the glasses and held out his hand for the four "bits," or twenty-five-cent pieces, habit required, his unprincipled customer produced a revolver which he very deliberately cocked and laid down upon the table beside him.

"D'yu see that?"

"You bet—Mr. Hasbrouck."

"Wall, then! don't stick out yure paws for money but bring along the licker when we ask for it."

Old "Zac's" lower jaw dropped as he looked in the face of him who spoke. There was a general shout or rather scream of laughter from the three other card-players. The face of Butch' was, however, as inflexible as if it had been hewn from granite.

"What du yu mean?" was the question at length propounded.

"Exsag'ly what I say. Jest mind your business, and we'll mind ourn."

After this, we continued playing.

California had, before this time, a monopoly of such rough and possibly dishonest jests. The very men who would have scorned implicating themselves in any business swindle, saw no harm, in occasionally, when under the influence of liquor, perpetrating a joke of this description. When younger, Taylor himself may have been an accomplice in some of the same sort. He walked back to the bar, with a countenance as grave as that of a man who is going to the gallows.

Speedily another round of drinks was ordered. This was followed by another and another.

Occasionally I glanced at him, and saw the hard lines of his countenance growing longer and longer. At last, about one o'clock, when we had been playing for some three hours and the log on the hearth had burnt down to scarcely more than a white mass of wood, which would have blistered any hand that touched it even while it threw out no heat, we felt the place growing cold. Old "Zac's" face lost its melancholy at the moment when Ben Painter sang out, with a lusty shiver:

"Put another log on the fire, Zac!"

"Whar am I to git one?"

"What d'yer mean?"

"You bet, Mr. Painter! I hain't got the key. How in thunder am I to go fur wood?"

The old fellow was quite right. How in thunder could he go to the wood-pile, while the door was locked? It was dangerous to let him have the key. He might run to Tom Long's, and inform him of our use of the contents of his cellar, without cashing up. Tom Long was by no means such a pacifically disposed individual as his temporary substitute. A similar thought to this evidently suggested itself to the mind of Brighton Bill. Rising from his seat, he said:

"Hi'll go with 'im, and may H'i be blamed hif the hold rip bolts."

Some time elapsed before the fresh log made its appearance, and the door which Bill had opened was once more locked. The log was placed upon the embers by old "Zac," and, in a brief time, the cheerful blaze from it was again warming the chilly temperature of the saloon.

We recommenced playing. Presently more drinks were called for.

As before, the old fellow brought them. This time, however, he had not placed the glasses upon a tray. He brought them two in each hand. Leaning across the table he placed the first two between Butch' and me. The other two were planted between Painter and Brighton Bill. As I chanced to look at him, shortly after, I saw the roughly rigid lines of his mouth actually curving into a smile. When another round of drinks were demanded, they were brought in the same fashion, but placed between Brighton Bill and Butch', and between Painter and myself.

Shortly after this, it struck me that my pile of eagles had lessened more than it should have done.

I and Bill had, however, been losing. The probability was that I had not noticed how rapidly my money was going. Nevertheless, when drinks were again called for I saw old "Zac's" wrists on Butch's money and Painter's, as the two glasses were set down, between them and the remaining two players. When Long's substitute left the table, it was clear fewer gold pieces laid between them and us than had been heaped there before. I was on the trail and followed it with my eyes. When I had detected, however, the means of which the shrewd old vagabond had availed himself to get even with us, I was too much amused to turn State's evidence, even in the row which ultimately arose between Brighton Bill and Butch', from the former accusing the latter of concealing his winnings. Bill had lost about as much as I had. He was, nevertheless, unaware that his crony, for such next to myself Butch' Hasbrouck was, had lost equally in amount, although more in proportion, than he had himself.

The astute "Zac" Taylor had managed to prolong his apparently enforced embassy to the wood-pile, until he had been able to cover the lower sides of his wrists with pitch.

This shrewd dodge had enabled him to pay Tom Long or himself, seven or eight times more than the amount due the former for the liquor we had been consuming. Every time he stretched across the table to place two glasses upon it, or repeated the action by my side, his wrists would rest upon two of our piles of gold pieces. Each time, one or two half-eagles were secured by the pitch with which the old scamp had anointed the side of his wrists necessary for this shrewd trick. The consequence was, that, for the only time in my life when such an unusual chance occurred, the whole of the four players were almost dead-broke.

"Each time one or two half-eagles were secured by the pitch with which the old scamp had anointed the sides of his wrists necessary for this shrewd trick."—Page 248.

But for the quantity of rye we had all of us been swallowing, the others must have seen through this impudent operation as I had done.

If so, it may be a matter of question whether "Zac's" undeniable popularity would have saved him from an entire coating of the pitch he had so acutely employed. Relishing the trick, I, however, held my peace. Possibly, had it occurred when flush times had passed, or before they had begun with me, I might have acted differently.

Early in the next spring, as our funds had almost touched low-water-mark, the boys held a council of war, and it was decided upon, without a single dissenting voice, that we should once more try our luck upon the Humboldt River.

Accordingly we started to the mines, there. For the first time we met in this locality with indifferent success, or rather with no success at all. We, therefore, decided upon prospecting at a further distance, and repaired to Austin. Here we found the mines less promising even than those we had just left, and pushed on to Belmont in the hope of doing better. A similar want of fortune pursued us to this place.

One evening as we were sitting in camp, in no very agreeable mood, as respected the world and things in general, a bright idea struck one of us.

"Look here, boys!" he said. "Haven't you ever thought of fighting ag'in Secesh?"

"May Hi be blamed," exclaimed Brighton Bill, "hif you 'aven't 'it hit! What's the h'use of prospecting hand digging where we don't git nothing. Hi'm game for heither side. Let's go h'in, Cap!"

"I'm not exactly game for either side, Bill!" was my reply; "but for the old Stars and Stripes, I think I'd like to take a turn."

"So would I. It will be some variety, old fellow, in any case, 'though I'd as soon fight it out on either side," said Painter.

"So would I. Ye're right, Ben!" ejaculated Butch' Hasbrouck.

"We'll put it to the vote, which side we go in for, Mose," quietly said Arnold.

Not one of us declined fighting. It was merely a question as to which side the fight was to be entered upon. A brief discussion had the result of our taking Harry's advice. The old flag, however, carried the largest number of votes. We were to strike a blow for the Union.

After we had determined upon this, the next thing which presented itself to our consideration, was the line of travel it would be best for us to take. We had a fair stock of coffee, sugar and jerked meat. This would, however, be insufficient, if we intended to cross the continent. We should have, consequently, to direct our march through a section in which game would be tolerably plentiful. My suggestion was that we should pass through the Paranagut country and the southern part of Utah, until we struck the Colorado River. From that point our line of march would be clear enough.

"Have yer ever been through that part, Mose?" asked Butch'.

"No."

"Then yer've a darned good nose for game, I will say."

"And red-skins, too," said Arnold, "if we are to believe all we hear."

"Whar thar's game, ye're sure to find the skunks," exclaimed Painter sententiously.

And so, the first part of our route was settled without much difficulty.

Next morning we broke up camp, and after a few days of hard travelling, struck the south fork of the Colorado. Game had been scarcer than we had supposed. However, it was absolutely necessary that we should here replenish our stock of provisions. The jerked meat began to run low, and we had no more than a single day's rations of coffee on hand. A halt for a few days was therefore proposed, during which we might devote our time to hunting, and laying in sufficient meat for us to continue our route to the East.

On the second morning after we had camped, I started alone up the river.

After ascending it for some three or four miles, I crossed and broke from it towards the south. In a brief space of time, I spotted an antelope, and was creeping up to it, against the wind, when almost close to me, beneath a large rock which had hitherto concealed it, I caught sight of another. My rifle was in a moment at my shoulder, and with no more trouble than it takes in telling it, I rolled him over.

This had occurred in the afternoon, and as I should have to carry the animal back with me, I thought it might be as well to retrace my steps.

Tying its feet together, I accordingly slung the dead antelope upon my back and started on my return.

The side of the Colorado in which our camp had been pitched, swept down to its banks with a park-like slope, although its herbage and the trees with which it was broken up, were wilder and more luxuriant than such a qualifying epithet might lead the reader to suppose they were. On the side to which I had crossed, the stream was bounded by an almost perpendicular wall of cliff, about sixty or seventy feet in height. Calculating that I should readily find some spot at which to descend, I had taken my way almost in a beeline to the spot opposite our camping-ground. Scarcely had I covered more than a mile in this direction than, happening to turn my head to the left, I saw a number of red-skins rushing towards me.

So thoroughly unmolested had our party been by Indians, since we had left Belmont, that I had entirely forgotten Arnold's warning hint about their presence in this part of the country. Indeed, I had not even thought about them lately, so apparently secure from their presence did we seem to be.

Here, however, they were, and plenty of them. Dropping the antelope in order to save myself, I took to my heels.

On arriving at the top of the cliff, immediately opposite the camp, I found no place at which I could manage to reach the bottom. The side of the cliff appeared to be one unbroken wall of rock.

Dashing up the river along the summit, at a little distance above I found a small notch in its face, haply, worn by some one of the numerous rivulets which seam the hills and mountains in winter. This afforded a means of partially sliding down or dropping to the level of the stream. The boys, on the opposite side of the Colorado, discerned me just as I had discovered this. They also saw the Indians, who were gradually closing upon me, and a volley of balls rattled amongst them.

At the same time, I had dropped upon my knee behind a rock, and given one of them a very conclusive hint, that, on his part, at least, any further pursuit of me must be useless.

But my discharge had scarcely rung upon the ear, than two red-skins had seized me.

They had attempted to cut me off, and my unlucky wish to take a hand in the play of my friends, had given them the chance of succeeding. In the struggle my rifle was kicked over the brink of the precipice, and fell into the river. I had dashed one of the Indians from me, and had gripped the other by the throat, when they were joined by two more. Forcing me upon the ground, they speedily tied my hands together, and dragging me from behind the rock to the brow of the cliff, in plain sight of the boys, threw me over.

The next thing I remember was the voice of Brighton Bill.

"H'it's ha blamed good chance," he said to some one who was standing by him, "'e didn't smash 'is 'ead hon the rocks, or 'e'd this time be ha goner. H'i guess 'e'll go 'ome now, hand give hup wanting to fight for Huncle Sam."

"He'd do the old boy more good by ridding the country of them cussed red devils, than by any other way," was the reply of Butch'.

Bill had seen my body flying over the face of the precipice. He was an excellent swimmer, and, almost as I struck the water, had plunged in after me. When I heard what Hasbrouck said, I endeavored to speak, but for some moments could not manage to make a single word audible; while the boys, seeing the motion of my lips, were crowding round me, and uttering every class of kind comfort, and not unchristianly profane tenderness. When, at length, I was able to find utterance, it was to Hasbrouck I spoke.

"You are about right, Butch'. We'll first wipe out some of these cursed Apaches."

"How do you feel now, Mose?" asked Arnold, upon whose knee I found my head was resting.

"Not very much damaged," I replied, as I managed to sit up, "except by the loss of my rifle."

"Hif that's hall," said Bill joyously, "Hi'm blowed hif you're much 'urt. H'as for your gun, Painter can tell you h'if hit's much hout hof geer."

"It only got a good wetting," was Ben's answer. "It war wuss for the cartridges than 't war for the barrel."

Like a practical man, he had been employed in taking it to pieces, drying and cleaning it, after Bill had dived for it and brought it to land with him.

"Now, tell us, how you got into this darned scrape, old boy?"

In compliance with Arnold's request, I gave them a thorough narration, and as the moon had risen and it evidently promised to be a clear night, in another hour some half of the Rangers crossed the Colorado to look after the antelope, and if they could to pick off one or two of my assailants. However, they succeeded in finding neither antelope nor Apaches. The last had carried off not only all of their own scalps, but also the carcass of the game I had counted on for our supper.

We remained in this part of the country for some little time.

Nevertheless, we scared up no more red-skins. The Apaches, perhaps, had more respect for our rifles than the Bannocks lately had. Possibly, also, they were, at the time, not in force between Prescott and the Colorado. In any case, we saw nothing of them, and were unable to punish them for their disturbance of our hunting. In addition to this, we killed very little game, and at length crossed from Prescott down the Gila River to Fort Yuma. Thence, after remaining in its neighborhood for a few days, we returned and followed up the Colorado, through the Mojava and Navajos settlements, occupied by partially civilized red-skins, until, late in September, we once more found ourselves in the Honey Lake Valley.