Chapter Four.

Describes an Incident of Devouring Interest, an Unexpected Visit, and a Violent Assault.

Next day our gold-hunters and the rescued men reached the forest, and after resting a short time to recruit, continued their journey to the diggings.

The particular part towards which their steps were directed was Bigbear Gully, a small and comparatively unknown, because recently discovered, gorge, opening out of the great Sacramento valley. On the way they passed through a country the very reverse of that which had so nearly cost them their lives. It was well wooded and watered, and abounded with game of various kinds, particularly hares, deer, quails, and other creatures; shooting these afforded pleasant pastime to the sporting characters of the party, and consuming them was enjoyed by all without exception!

Rance, the guide, now that he was separated from his comrade, turned out to be a capital fellow, and, during the remainder of the journey, did much to make the travellers harmonise. The party now consisted of our hero and Joe Graddy, Jeffson the Yankee, Douglas the Scot, Meyer the German, and Bradling; all of whom, excepting the last, were good and true men. As for Bradling, no one could make out what he was, for at times he was amiable and polite, while at other times he was savage and morose.

One night the travellers reached a part of the mountains which was densely covered with wood. As there was no moon, and it was almost impossible to see a step before them, Rance called a halt.

“We must sleep here,” he said to Jeffson. “I had half expected to make out Bigbear Gully to-night, but the road is not safe; too many precipices and steep parts, which require to be passed in daylight.”

“Very good, Rance; then we had better set about encamping.”

“’Tis a dreary-looking place,” said Frank Allfrey, glancing round him.

“’Twill look more cheery when the fire is kindled,” said Jeffson.

“Dismal enough to give a man the blues just now, anyhow,” observed Joe Graddy.

This was undoubtedly true. There is, perhaps, nothing more desolate, more cheerless, more oppressive to the spirits, than the influence of the woods at night. They are so dark, so black-looking and dismal, that one is led irresistibly to contrast them with home and its bright fireside and well-remembered faces—just as the starving man is led by his condition to dream of rich feasts. In both cases the result is the same. The dream of food makes the starving man’s case more terrible, and the thought of home makes the dreariness of the dark wilderness more dismal.

But what magic there is in a spark of light! The first burst of flame drives all the sad lonesome feelings away, and the blaze of the increasing fire creates positively a home-feeling in the breast. The reason of this is plain enough. Before the fire is kindled the eye wanders restlessly through the dim light that may chance to straggle among the trees. The mind follows the eye, and gets lost among indistinct objects which it cannot understand. The feelings and the faculties are scattered—fixed upon nothing, except perhaps on this, that the wanderer is far, very far, from home. But when the bright glare of the fire springs up, everything beyond the circle of light becomes pure black. The thoughts and feelings are confined within that chamber with the ebony walls, and are forcibly attracted and made to rest upon the tree-stems, the leaves, the flowers, and other objects that glow in the ruddy blaze. Thus the thoughts are collected, and the wanderer feels, once more, something of the home-feeling.

It was not long before our travellers realised this agreeable change. The depression of their spirits vanished with the darkness and rose with the leaping flames, until some of the members of the party became quite facetious. This was especially the case when supper had been disposed of and the pipes were lighted. It was then that Rance became chatty and anecdotal in his tendencies, and Jeffson told marvellous stories of Yankee-land, and Douglas, who devoted himself chiefly to his pipe, became an attentive listener and an awkward tripper up of the heels of those who appeared to be “drawing the long-bow,” and Meyer looked, if possible, more solid and amiable than at other times, and Frank enjoyed himself in a general way, and made himself generally agreeable, while Joe Graddy became profoundly sententious. Even Bradling’s nature appeared to be softened, for he looked less forbidding and grumpy than at other times, and once condescended to remark that a life in the woods was not such a bad one after all!

“Not such a bad one!” cried Joe Graddy; “why, messmate, is that all you’ve got to say about it? Now I’ll give ’e my opinion on that head. This is where it lies—see here.” (Joe removed his pipe from his mouth and held up his fore-finger by way of being very impressive.) “I’ve travelled pretty well now in every quarter of the globe; gone right round it in fact, and found that it is round after all,—’cause why? I went in, so to speak, at one end from the west’ard an’ comed out at the same end from the east’ard, though I must confess it all appeared to me as flat’s a pancake, always exceptin’ the mountainous parts of it, w’ich must be admitted to be lumpy. Hows’ever, as I wos sayin’, I’ve bin a’most all over the world—I’ve smoked wi’ the Turks, an’ hobnobbled with John Chinaman, an’ scrambled through the jungles of the Indies, an’ gone aloft the Himalayas—”

“What, have you seen the Himalayas?” asked Jeffson, with a doubtful look.

“How could I be among ’em without seein’ of ’em?” replied Joe.

“Ah, das is goot—vair goot,” said Meyer, opening his huge mouth very wide to let out a cloud of smoke and a quiet laugh.

“Well, but you know,” said Jeffson, apologetically, “a poor fellow livin’ out here in the wilderness ain’t just always quite up in the gee-graphical changes that take place on the airth. When was it that they cut a ship canal up to the Himalayas, and in what sort o’ craft did ye sail there?”

“I didn’t go for to say I sailed there at all,” retorted Joe; “I walked it partly, and went part o’ the way on elephants an’ horses, and went aloft o’ them there mountains pretty nigh as far up as the main-topmast cross-trees of ’em; I’ve also slep’ in the snow-huts of the Eskimos, an’ bin tossed about in a’most every sort o’ craft that swims, but wot I’ve got to say