The Cave of Gold<br />A Tale of California in '49 by Everett McNeil (e book reader pdf TXT) 📕

pay it, or they'll go to the diggings."

"Excuse me," broke in Bud, who at this moment suddenly thought that no one would be apt to know more about the goings and the comings of the miners, than the hotelkeeper, himself. "But, do you happen to know of any miners in town who are going to Hangtown? We expect to find our dads there; and want to get away from here as soon as we can."

"Now," and the broad forehead wrinkled, "let me think. Sure!" and the wrinkles vanished. "Yankee Tom and his company were to start for Hangtown this morning; and, I reckon, if you hustle, you can yet get to them before they start. You see—"

"Where'll we find them?" broke in Thure eagerly. He was too anxious to be off to care to listen longer to the talkative landlord.

"See that big sycamore over yonder?" and the landlord pointed through the open door to where a giant tree lifted its head far above its surroundings.

"Yes."

"Well, Yankee Tom's camp is under that tree. Just head for that tree, and you will sure hit his camp, if he is still there; but you'd better hustle," and the landlord turned to attend to other guests.

Thure and Bud at once hurried out to where they had left their horses; and were soon mounted and hastening toward the big tree. Their route, for a short distance, lay through a very busy street, with shops of all kinds and innumerable gambling—and drinking-hells on both sides. Great crowds of men were hurrying in and out of these places; and the street was so jammed with wagons and horses and mules and oxen and men that Thure and Bud found considerable difficulty in making their way through it.

"No more hotel eating for me," declared Thure, with a grimace, as they made their way as speedily as possible through this crowded street. "A Dollar and a Half for an Egg! But won't mother's eyes open when she hears that?"

"Well, eggs are not the only things that are high. Just look at that sign there," and Bud pointed to a large sign in front of one of the stores, on which the storekeeper had recorded the day's bargains. The sign read:

THE BEST AND THE CHEAPEST PLACE TO BUY YOUR OUTFITS A FEW OF TO-DAY'S SPECIAL BARGAINS THAT CANT BE BEAT ANYWHERE IN THE CITY Best flour ten pounds for only $15.00 Rice, five pounds for only 5.00 Potatoes, a heaped-up bushel, only 35.00 Good butter only 2.00 per pound Barley only 1.00 per quart Best white beans only 6.50 Candles only 1.00 each. Best Salaratus only 14.50 per pound Hip boots, warranted waterproof 100.00 Pair of pantaloons, good quality 36.00 Sugar—good—only 2.00 per pound Coffee, five pounds for 9.00 Good picks, shovels, tin-pans at only 57.00 each.

"Whew!" and Thure drew in a long breath, when he had finished reading the sign. "It's lucky we brought our outfits along with us, or we'd be bankrupt before we could get out of Sacramento City. Well, those prices certainly prove that the gold is here. Nobody could live if it wasn't. And, when you stop to think that most of the stuff has to be brought thousands of miles and then packed for some two hundred miles more into a roadless wilderness, the prices don't look so high—Well, what's the rumpus now?" and Thure whirled partly around on his horse to look back to where a huge red-headed man had suddenly jumped up on top of a barrel in front of one of the stores, and was yelling something, just what he could not understand, and pointing excitedly in his direction.

A sound, like a growl from the throats of a hundred angry wolves, went up from the surrounding crowd, and a great wave, headed by the red-headed man, rolled threateningly toward the two wondering boys.

"What—what can be the trouble?" and Bud turned an anxious face to Thure. "They look mad; and they are coming straight toward us! What can have happened? Who are they after?" and he looked confusedly around.

"Pull them off their horses!"

"Hang them!"

"The murderers!"

The air was now filled with these and similar dreadful cries and men came running toward them from all directions; and, before the two boys could fairly realize what was happening, they found themselves the center of a seething crowd of excited and angry men, while a hundred armed hands were lifted threateningly toward them.

"God in heaven, they are after us!" and Thure, too utterly astounded for the moment to realize the terrible nature of their situation, stared wildly into the surrounding angry faces. "What—what—"

But, before he could put his stammering dumbfounded query, strong hands seized and jerked him roughly from his horse, while other hands at the same moment jerked Bud off his horse. One of the men who seized and pulled Thure from his horse was the big red-headed man, who had jumped up on top of the barrel and who had led the rush against the two boys. The moment Thure looked into his face he started back in horror. The man had a broken nose!

At this moment and before either boy had collected his startled wits sufficiently to even offer a protest or to demand what this rough laying on of hands meant, a big man drove, like a sharpened wedge, through the crowd, and halted, with a hand tightly gripping the coat collar of each terrified lad.

"What is the trouble?" he demanded authoritatively. "What have the young men done?"

"The sheriff!" yelled someone in the crowd. "It's Turner, the sheriff!"

"Yes, it's Turner, the sheriff," and the man tightened his grips on Thure's and Bud's collars. "Hands off. They are my prisoners now," and he turned a bit impatiently to the men, whose hands still had hold of the boys. "Well, what have they done?"

"Murder!" "Murder!" yelled a dozen voices from the crowd.

"Why, they are little more than boys!" and the sheriff turned his eyes in astonished horror on Thure and Bud. "Who accuses them?"

"Me an' my pard do," and the big red-headed man with a broken nose, who had let go of Thure the moment the sheriff had him safely by the collar, stepped up in front of Turner. "We accuses them of murderin' an' robbin' John Stackpole, an old miner, who was on his way tew San Francisco from th' diggin's; an' what's more, we saw 'em do it with our own eyes; an' are ready tew swear tew th' same afore any judge an' jury. Ain't we Spike?" and he turned to a small man, with a pockmarked face, who was standing close to Bud.

"True as preachin'," declared the small man. "With my own eyes I saw 'em knock th' miner off his hoss with their guns, an' then jump on him, an' run a knife through his heart, an' jerk off his gold-belt, an'—"

"You lie!" and the hard fist of Bud's sturdy right arm landed squarely on the chin of the man, with such force that he was knocked backward, senseless, into the arms of a man standing behind him. "You and Brokennose killed him yourselves. We—"

"Shut up!" and the sheriff whirled Bud violently around in front of him. "Now, young man, another move like that and I will put you in irons. Here, Dave," and he turned to a roughly dressed miner standing near, "just pull their teeth, while I hold them. They're beginning to look some rambunctuous."

And, indeed, Thure and Bud did look "rambunctuous"; for by now both boys were beginning to get an inkling of the game that was being played on them by the two scoundrels. But, what could they do? Everything had happened so suddenly and unexpectedly, that they were in the hands of the sheriff before either of them had recovered his wits sufficiently to even open his mouth in protest or defense.

"Quiet, quiet," cautioned the roughly dressed miner, whom the sheriff had summoned to his aid, in a low voice, as he swiftly pulled the boys' knives and pistols from their belts. "Don't let your tempers git tew buckin'. You're a sight better off in th' hands of th' sheriff, who will see that you git a fair trial, than you would be in the hands of the mob, who sometimes string a feller up first an' try him afterwards."

Thure and Bud promptly saw the wisdom of this counsel and allowed the miner to disarm them without protest.

"Now, Dave, I'll make you my deputy until this little matter is settled. Bring along the animals and I'll see that these two young—" The sheriff paused and looked curiously into the faces of Thure and Bud. "I'll be hanged, if you look much like murderers!" he declared frankly. "Howsomever, I am not the judge; and you can't always tell whether or not a dog has got fleas by his looks."

"We are innocent, absolutely innocent," began Thure excitedly. "We did not kill the old miner. We—"

"Save your talk," broke in the sheriff good-naturedly, glancing sharply into the boy's face, "for the trial. I'll see that you get a fair trial; and that's all that I can do. Now, you two men that make this accusation of murder against the prisoners, come along," and he glanced keenly at the two men.

Brokennose still stood near Thure; and the one called Spike had recovered sufficiently from his contact with Bud's fist to stand glaring at Bud, with an ugly scowl on his pock-marked face.

"Where are you goin' tew take 'em?" he demanded. "This ain't no jail case. We wants them tried immejiate. Thar ain't no need of lawyers an' jedges tew mix things up. We seed 'em kill th' miner, an' are willin' tew swear tew it, an' that otter be enough tew have 'em danglin' by their necks inside of half an hour."

"They'll dangle, when they've been proven guilty, according to the laws of this city; and not before," answered the sheriff dryly. "We'd give a dog a fair trial in this town before we'd hang him. Come, you can tell your stories to the alcalde," and, still keeping a tight grip on the collars of Thure and Bud, he started down the street toward the office of the alcalde, before whom all criminal cases were tried, followed by Dave, the miner, with the horses of the boys, their two accusers, and the crowd, which had made no move to dispute the authority of the sheriff, although a little growling had been done. They knew that they would not have long to wait. California justice in those days in the mining towns and camps was sudden.

CHAPTER IX THE TESTIMONY OF BILL UGGER

Sacramento City at that date had a rude but effective government of its own. An alcalde and other city officers had been elected; and certain unwritten laws, for the protection of life and property, had been promulgated and were strictly enforced. Lynching, in the sense that we know it to-day, was almost unknown. There were no disorderly mobs, who, under the spurs of their own brutal passions, strung up their victims unheard and without even the semblance of a fair trial. Justice, if sudden, was usually careful to see that it was justice and not brutality that rendered the verdict. And yet, many of these early trials had the outward semblance of lynching-bees in the swift severity of their punishments. A murderer would be arrested, tried, convicted, and decently hanged, all before sundown of the same day. The mob spirit