The signs of an approaching storm
that had been noted with some apprehension the night
before, passed away. The sky revealed hardly a
cloud rift, and, when the sun had climbed the mountain
crests, the scene was grand beyond description.
But for the grim errand of the four men, holding relentlessly
to the pursuit, they must have yielded to its impressive
influence.
The trail remained so favorable for
a couple of miles further, that it was passed at the
same easy, swinging gallop. Vose Adams retained
his place a few paces in advance of the others, who
saw him glance sharply to the right and left, often
to the ground and occasionally to the rear, as if
to assure himself that none of his friends was going
astray.
The moderate but continuous descent
of the path took them so far downward that the change
of temperature again became noticeable. The ground
was rough and uneven and the animals dropped to a walk.
Sometimes the course led around boulders, through sparse
growths of cedar, beside brawling torrents, two of
which they were compelled to ford, where it was hard
for their animals to keep their feet.
“Last fall,” remarked
the guide, at the most difficult of these passages,
“I had to wait two days before I dared try to
cross with Hercules and one of the other mules.”
His companions nodded their heads
but made no other answer. They were not in the
mood for talking.
They were now making their way through
a canyon similar to Dead Man’s Gulch, with rents
and yawning ravines opening on the right and left,
before which the party might have halted in perplexity,
had it been in the night time. But the path showed
plainly and the familiarity of the guide prevented
any mistake on his part.
Adams had intimated that by a certain
line of procedure the watchful fugitives could be
prevented from discovering the approach of the pursuers
until too late to escape them. In counting upon
his ability to do this, he overestimated his skill,
for the task was clearly impossible, and it was because
of his efforts in that direction that he made a serious
blunder. He had crossed for the third time a stream
which was shallow, and, upon reaching the opposite
bank, where the ground was moist and soft, he reined
up with an exclamation of impatience.
“What’s the matter?”
asked Captain Dawson, in the same mood.
“We’ve passed ’em,”
was the reply; “they’re somewhere behind
us.”
“How far?”
“That remains to be found out,
but I don’t think it’s a great distance.”
The captain angrily wheeled his horse
and re-entered the stream.
“If they don’t get away,
it won’t be our fault,” was his ungracious
comment; “we have done little else than throw
away our chances from the first.”
The guide made no response, and the
next minute the four were retracing their course,
their animals at a walk, and all scanning the rocks
on either hand as they passed them.
It was clear by this time that the
fugitives held one important advantage over their
pursuers. The route that they were following was
so devious and so varied in its nature, that only at
rare intervals could it be traced with the eye for
a quarter or half a mile. Certain of pursuit,
Lieutenant Russell and his companion would be constantly
on the lookout for it. They were more likely,
therefore, to discover the horsemen than the latter
were to observe them. Even if their flight was
interrupted, there were innumerable places in this
immense solitude where they could conceal themselves
for an indefinite period.
The question the pursuers asked themselves
was whether the others had strayed unwittingly from
the trail, or whether they had turned off to elude
their pursuers, whose desperate mood they could not
but know. The latter supposition seemed the more
likely, since the path was marked so plainly that
it could be lost only by unaccountable carelessness.
At the first break in the side of
the vast mountain walls Vose Adams again slipped from
his mule and spent several minutes in studying the
ground.
“They haven’t gone in
here,” was his comment, as he remounted.
“Make certain that we are not
too far back,” said the captain.
“I have made no mistake,”
was the curt reply of the guide. The party had
gone less than twenty rods further, when another rent
opened on the other side of the canyon, which was
about an eighth of a mile wide. It would not
do now to slight anything, and Adams headed his mule
diagonally across the gorge, the animal walking slowly,
while the rider leaned over with his eyes on the ground.
Suddenly he exclaimed:
“We’ve hit it this time! Here’s
where they went in!”
All four leaped from the back of their
animals. Adams pointed out the faint indentations
made by the hoofs of two horses. Less accustomed
than he to study such evidence, they failed to note
that which was plain to him; the hoof prints of one
of the animals were smaller than those of the other,
since they were made by Cap, the pony belonging to
Nellie Dawson. There could no longer be any doubt
that the pursuers were warm on the trail of the fugitives.
Such being the fact, the interest
of the men naturally centered on the avenue through
which the others had made their way.
It was one of those fissures, sometimes
seen among enormous piles of rock, that suggest that
some terrific convulsion of nature, ages before, has
split the mountain in twain from top to bottom.
The latter was on a level with the main canyon itself,
the chasm at the beginning being ten or twelve yards
in width, but, occurring in a depression of the mountain
spur, its height was no more than five or six hundred
feet, whereas in other localities it would have been
nearly ten times as great. The base was strewn
with fragments of sandstone, some of the pieces as
large as boulders, which had probably been brought
down by the torrents that swept through the ravine
in spring or when a cloudburst descended upon the
upper portion.
Standing at the entrance, it was observed
that the gorge trended sharply to the left, so that
the view was shut off at a distance of fifty yards.
It was noticeable, too, that the path taken by the
fugitives sloped upward at so abrupt an angle that
it must have sorely tried the horses.
“I thought so,” was the
comment of Vose Adams, when he returned from a brief
exploration of the ravine; “they got off and
led their animals.”
“Have you any idea of the distance
they went?” asked Captain Dawson, who was in
a more gracious mood, now that he appreciated the value
of the services of their guide.
“No; I’ve rid in front
of that opening a good many times, but this is the
first time I ever went into it.”
“Well, what is to be done?” asked Parson
Brush.
“Why, foller ’em of course,” Wade
Ruggles took upon himself to reply.
“That won’t do,”
replied Adams, “for it is likely to upset everything;
I’ll leave Hercules with you and sneak up the
gorge far enough to find how the land lays. I’ll
come back as soon as I can, but don’t get impatient
if I’m gone several hours.”
Brush and Ruggles showed their displeasure,
for, while admitting the skill of the guide, they
could not see adequate cause for the impending delay.
They had made so many slips that it seemed like inviting
another. It was clear that they were close upon
the fugitives, and the two believed the true policy
was to press the pursuit without relaxing their vigor.
But Captain Dawson, the one who naturally would have
been dissatisfied, was silent, thereby making it apparent
that Adams was carrying out a plan previously agreed
upon by the two.
Vose paid no heed to Ruggles and the
parson, but started up the ravine, quickly disappearing
from view. Believing a long wait inevitable,
the three prepared to pass the dismal interval as best
they could. Here and there scant patches of grass
showed in the canyon, and the animals were allowed
to crop what they could of the natural food.
The men lounged upon the boulders at hand, smoked their
pipes and occasionally exchanged a few words, but
none was in the mood for talking and they formed a
grim, stolid group.
Hardly ten minutes had passed, when
Ruggles, with some evidence of excitement, exclaimed
in a guarded undertone:
“Helloa! Something’s up!”
He referred to the horses, who are
often the most reliable sentinels in the presence
of insidious danger. Two of them had stopped plucking
the grass, and, with their ears pricked, were staring
up the canyon at some object that had attracted their
attention and that was invisible to their owners in
their present situation.
Convinced that something unusual had
taken place, Ruggles walked out into the canyon where
he could gain a more extended view. One sweeping
glance was enough, when he hurried back to his companions.
“Thunderation! all Sacramento’s
broke loose and is coming this way!”
The three passed out from the side
of the gorge to where they had a view of the strange
procession. There seemed to be about a dozen men,
mounted on mules, with as many more pack animals, coming
from the west in a straggling procession, talking
loudly and apparently in exuberant spirits.
“I don’t like their looks,”
said Brush; “it is best to get our property
out of their way.”
The counsel was good and was followed
without a minute’s delay. The four animals
were rounded up and turned into the ravine, up which
Vose Adams had disappeared. They gave no trouble,
but, probably because of the steepness of the slope,
none of the four went beyond sight. Had the three
men been given warning, they would have placed them
out of reach, for none knew better than they how attractive
horses are to men beyond the power of the law.
But it was too late now, and the little party put
on a bold front.
As the strangers drew near, they were
seen to be nine in number and they formed a motley
company. Their pack mules were so cumbrously
loaded as to suggest country wagons piled with hay.
The wonder was how the tough little animals could
carry such enormous burdens, consisting of blankets,
picks, shovels, guns, cooking utensils, including even
some articles of furniture.
Our older readers will recall that
for years after the close of the war, tens of thousands
of the blue army overcoats were in use throughout
the country. It looked as if every man in the
present company was thus provided, including in many
instances trousers of the same material, though each
person had discarded the army cap for a soft slouch
hat, similar to those worn by the miners. All
the garments were in a dilapidated condition, proving
their rough usage as well as their poor quality.
Many of the heavy boots disclosed naked toes, while
the mules had not known a curry comb for weeks and
perhaps months.
The faces of the men were anything
but attractive. Most of them were heavily bearded,
with long, frowsy, unkempt hair, dangling about the
shoulders. Every one displayed side arms, and
there could be no mistake in setting them down as
a reckless lot, whom a peaceable citizen would not
care to meet anywhere.
The leader of this mongrel gang was
a massive man, who bestrode so small a mule that his
feet were only a few inches from the ground.
There was little semblance of discipline in the company,
but a certain rude deference to the fellow, who kept
his place at the head, and did the loudest talking,
ornamented with plenty of expletives, indicated his
prominence among his fellows.
The mountain tramps had descried the
three men standing at the side of the canyon, watching
them as they approached. They ceased their boisterous
talking and studied them as they drew near.
“Howdy, pards?” called
the leader, raising his two fingers to his forehead
and making a military salute, to which our friends
responded coolly, hoping the company would keep on
without stopping.
But they were disappointed. Colonel
Briggs, as his men called him, suddenly shouted “Whoa!”
in a voice that could have been heard a mile off,
and pulled so hard on his bridle rein that he drew
the jaws of the mule against his breast, while the
rider lay back almost on the haunches of his animal,
who showed his contrariness by walking round in a
short circle before standing still.
“Which way, pards?” asked
the leader, while his followers, who with more or
less effort succeeded in checking their mules, curiously
surveyed the three miners.
“We intend to visit Sacramento,” replied
Captain Dawson.
“Huh! that’s where we come from.”
“On your way to the diggings
I presume?” continued the captain courteously.
“That’s what’s the
matter; we’re going to New Constantinople, which
is the name of a mining settlement in Dead Man’s
Gulch. Do you know anything of the place?”
“We live there.”
“The deuce! Queer town, ain’t it?”
“In what respect?”
“Don’t like visitors;
Red Tom and Missouri Mike, two of the gang with me,
stopped there a year or so ago with the idée of
staying; the best they could do was to sleep there
one night and git fired the next morning. That
went agin the grain,” continued Colonel Briggs,
“and the more the boys thought it over the madder
they got. When they told the rest of us, we made
up our minds that the trouble was the diggings had
panned out so rich in them parts that the folks meant
to keep ’em to themselves. I don’t
call that square, so we’re going down to divvy
with ’em. Big scheme, ain’t it?”
Our three friends were astounded.
The addition of this gang to New Constantinople meant
nothing less than its moral ruin. It would bring
a peril from the first hour and doubtless precipitate
a murderous conflict with a doubtful issue.
“They are a peculiar people,”
said Captain Dawson, repressing all evidence of his
anger; “it’s a mistake to attribute their
prejudice against immigrants to the richness of the
diggings, for though they have been worked for years,
they have not produced much. But they want no
strangers among them, and I know they will not allow
you and your friends to make your homes in their settlement.”
Colonel Briggs threw back his head,
opened his enormous mouth and broke into uproarious
laughter, most of his companions joining him to the
extent of a broad grin.
“Do you hear that, boys?
Won’t let us settle among ’em, eh?
And there are nine of us and we hain’t had a
scrimmage since we left Sacramento, except with the
Injins, which don’t count. Stranger, we’re
yearning to hear your folks say we shan’t jine
’em, ’cause if they try to stop it, it’ll
make things lively.”
It was not a pleasant recollection
of our friends that, since their departure from New
Constantinople, the force left behind would be hardly
a match for this desperate gang of marauders, who no
doubt were as eager for trouble as they professed
to be.
“Why not make a settlement of
your own?” was the conciliating question of
Parson Brush; “there’s plenty of room in
this country.”
“That would be too peaceable
like; it don’t suit us; we’re looking for
trouble.”
“And you’ll find it powerful
quick,” said Wade Ruggles, “if you try
to shove that gang of yours into New Constantinople.”
“That’s music in our ears;
that’s what we’re hungry for; we’re
ready to start an opposition hotel to the Heavenly
Bower, too; we’ve got the stock to furnish it.”
“Wade,” said the parson,
“keep your temper; we can’t afford to quarrel
with these men.”
“It wouldn’t take much
for me to shoot that chap off his mule as he sets
there.”
“Leave matters to the captain;
it looks as if we shall have a fight, but it is best
to keep cool.”
The observant trio had noticed an
additional cause for uneasiness. More than one
of the party were surveying the three horses and mule
with admiring eyes. Some of them spoke to one
another in low tones, and there could be no doubt
they looked with envy upon the animals, which, tiring
of their confinement in the ravine, had come forth
as if with the purpose of passing under review, on
their way to crop the grass from which they had been
driven.
“Colonel,” called one
of the men behind him, “them is likely animals.”
“I had obsarved that fact myself;
strangers, I’ve made up my mind to buy them
critters; what’s your price?”
“They are not for sale,” replied Captain
Dawson.
“Why not?”
“We need them for our own use.”
“Then we’ll trade.”
“You won’t do anything
of the kind,” said the captain, speaking with
the utmost coolness, but with that paling of the countenance
and glitter of the eyes that Colonel Briggs would
have done well to heed.
“Strikes me, stranger, you’re
rather peart in your observations,” said the
leader with an odd chuckle; “we ain’t used
to having people speak to us in that style.”
“It is my custom to say what I mean; it saves
misunderstanding.”
“It’s my opinion, stranger, you’d
better say trade.”
“It is of no importance to me
what your opinion is; we need the horses and the mule
for our own use and we shall keep them.”
“But you’ve got one more than you want.”
“He belongs to a friend who
is not far off and will soon return; we can’t
spare one of them.”
“If we give you four of ours
for the lot, that’ll make an even thing of it.
Besides, we’ll throw in something to boot.”
“I wouldn’t give one of
the horse’s shoes for all the trash you have
piled on top of your animals; the stuff isn’t
worth house room, but it is what I should expect to
see in the hands of a lot of tramps like you and yours;
I wouldn’t trade our mule for the whole party
which, to judge by their looks, ought to be in jail.”
Brush and Ruggles were amazed to hear
the captain use such language, for it sounded as if
he was trying to provoke instead of avoid a fight.
The truth was the veteran was thoroughly enraged by
the evident purpose of the fellow before him.
Although his voice was low and deliberate, the captain’s
temper was at a white heat. The point had been
reached where a desperate struggle seemed unavoidable,
and he wished to precipitate the crisis, inasmuch
as it had to come.
Colonel Briggs did not laugh, but
turning his head, talked for a minute with the man
nearest him, their words so low that no one else heard
them. Then the leader turned back in a quick,
decisive way.
“There don’t seem much
use in talking, stranger, so ’spose we make a
fight of it.”
“As you prefer.”
The gang hardly expected so firm a
front. Some of them muttered to one another.
They were not a unit on the question, though it was
evident that the majority preferred to fight.
The three men stood with their backs
almost against the mountain wall. Each had a
Winchester and revolver and all were expert in the
use of the weapons. The others were gathered
in an irregular group around their leader. They,
too, were provided with all the weapons they could
use, not to mention the extra guns strapped upon the
pack mules. They outnumbered our friends three
to one.
Captain Dawson could use his rifle
as well with his single arm as formerly with two.
“He can’t fire before
me,” he said in an undertone to Brush, standing
next to him; “when the shooting begins, I’ll
drop him off his mule before he knows what’s
coming. When I say the word, let fly as quick
as lightning! Likely enough they’ll win,
but we’ll make them pay high for their victory.”
“Do you notice that tall thin
man at the rear?” asked Brush, in the same guarded
voice; “his eyes shine like a rattlesnake’s;
he’ll be my first target.”