CHAPTER LXX.

FUN AND FROLIC.

As it may be of interest to persons who have never been in the mining-regions of the Pacific Coast, I shall give an account of a prospecting trip which I took in Washoe, in 1860, just after the Indian troubles. Although no grand discovery was made, a sketch of the trip will serve to show the manner in which such expeditions were at one time conducted.

I was at that time camped at Silver City. One day a miner came to my cabin in a great state of excitement and said he had just learned that some men had struck placer-diggings of extraordinary richness on El Dorado Cañon, a large cañon to the southward of the Carson River. He said: “They are getting gold as large as peas, and are making from $10 to $20 per man with rockers.” A dozen or more in the camp were let into the secret, and we soon had several mules packed with “grub”—flour, beans, bacon, tea, and sugar—and were ready for a start. We wished to reach the new gold-region in time to get good claims and in advance of the rush of prospectors that was likely to occur as soon as news of the new strike should leak out. Not a soul in the camp knew where we were going, and as we marched down Gold Cañon, the miners pushed aside the blankets which were hung up as doors to their cabins and gazed in wonder upon our caravan. Each countenance said more plainly than words could have expressed it: “A big strike has been made somewhere. Those fellows know where it is and are going to it. I must find out about it and be off after them!” With a great clatter of pots, kettles, gold-pans, and frying-pans, our mules trotted into Chinatown (now Dayton). In this camp our “grand entry” created something of a sensation, and curiosity was seen in every face. Even the unimpressible Chinamen gazed upon us in almond-eyed astonishment. We were nearly all on foot and carried picks and shovels upon our shoulders, and long knives and six-shooters slung to our belts.

All who saw us were dying to ask us what was up; but, evidently feeling that it was a secret expedition, no man ventured to question us. Already we were rich, in imagination, and all felt as jolly as so many millionaires setting off on a pleasure excursion. Indeed, miners generally make these trips a sort of pleasure excursion and give about as much time to deviltry, and to curiously wandering about and viewing the wonders of the wilds, as they do to the real business of the journey.

Passing through Chinatown, we were soon at the Carson River, where we found trouble that we had not thought of. The river was high and swift; nearly all of our party were on foot; the mules were heavily packed, and there was but one horse without a load. This horse, however, was a large and powerful animal. Tom Lovel, his owner, finally rode across the stream and found that the water just reached to the horse’s back. The pack-mules were driven across the stream after Tom by means of clubs and stones thrown after them. All got safely over but one puny and unlucky beast that was carried down the stream. The little rascal never attempted to swim until he had been swept some distance down the river, when he turned his head against the current and paddled away like a good fellow, for about ten minutes, without gaining or losing an inch, then with a mournful, despairing groan he gave up and floated ashore on the same side from which he started. Tom then came back on his horse, and throwing a lasso about the neck of the dripping little beast, towed him to the other shore, despite his moanings, and sundry other expostulatory demonstrations. Next we foot-men were, one at a time, mounted behind Tom and borne across the stream, all but myself landing in shape. I was the last to cross, and, on mounting the opposite shore, Tom, having overmuch confidence in the strength and activity of his horse, insisted upon trying to ascend a perpendicular bank. The consequence was that we both slid back upon the horse’s rump, causing his hind feet to sink into the mud until he assumed a perpendicular position.

The next thing I saw was that horse’s head coming straight into my face. There was then a dull splash and a surging sound, and I was at the bottom of the Carson River, with Tom and horse a-top of me. I did some lively work for a time, and finally came to the surface with my mouth full of black mud. Tom got out in some way before I came to the surface. While I was pouring the water out of my boots, wringing out my shirt, and firing off and reloading my revolver, the majority of our party moved on, Tom allowing a friend to ride his horse. Only Tom, myself, and a Missourian known as “Pike” (the man who found the “stuff compasses are made of”) remained behind; and when we finally started the others were nearly a mile away. We had not travelled half a mile before we came to a bayou or slough, half as large as the river itself and of which it was a sort of a cut-off. Here we halted. The “boys” had gone on with the animals, and, seeing that there was no other way—and being about as wet as water could make me—I plunged in and waded across, the water coming almost to my armpits. Tom hesitated and hallooed to try to make those in advance come back with his horse, but they were beyond hearing. Finally he offered Pike half a dollar to carry him across the slough on his back, which offer Pike gladly accepted. When Tom mounted Pike’s back he settled him down in the mud nearly to his knees, and when he got out into the stream, Pike floundered about alarmingly.

Tom drew up his legs and wrapped them about Pike’s hips, hugging to him as closely as a young Indian.

All on a sudden Pike began to shout: “Snake! snake! For God’s sake, Tom, get off my back, a snake is biting me all to pieces!”

“What in thunder do you mean?” cried Tom. “Don’t you try foolin’ with me about a snake!”

“Snake! snake!” cried Pike, striving to run, but Tom clung to him like the Old Man of the Sea, thinking that he was putting up a job to throw him into the water.

“Stop your foolin’ or I’ll hit you!” said Tom.

But Pike still plunged furiously, and then began calling upon Tom to put down his legs. “Put down your legs, confound you! Don’t you see that you are killing me—that you are cutting me all to pieces with—” But Pike was not allowed to finish the sentence, as Tom, who was by this time blind with rage, drew back his fist as well as he was able and struck Pike in the mouth.

The unexpected blow caused Pike to throw his head back so far that both went over backwards and disappeared under the water. They came up about four feet apart, and as soon as Tom got his hair out of his eyes he made for Pike. The latter was on his guard and stepped aside, at the same time grasping Tom and giving him such a plunge as must have sent him to the depth of a foot into the mud at the bottom of the stream. Pike then broke for the shore with such furious strides as to nearly lift the waters from their bed. By the time Tom had reached shore Pike was at a safe distance, yet when Tom began snapping his revolver at him he danced about at a lively rate.

“Hold on! hold on!” cried Pike, “stay where you are! Don’t shoot till I tell you about it! Blast it, don’t you know that down in the water thar you was jist cuttin’ me all to pieces with them infernal spurs of yours!”

Tom glanced down at his heels and saw it all. There were his huge Spanish spurs, sharp as needles, and there he had been digging into poor Pike’s flesh while riding him through the water, causing him to think he was being bitten on all sides by water-snakes.

“Haw! haw!” laughed Tom. “Why Pike, you fool, why didn’t you tell me that I was hurtin’ you with my spurs?”

“I didn’t know what it was myself, at fust; then when I did find out you wouldn’t give me time to say it.”

After these explanations Tom and Pike shook hands and called it even. Peace being restored, we set forward along the trail on which our companions had preceded us, but did not overtake them until we had reached the mouth of El Dorado Cañon, the gulch on which we expected to find the diggings. Up this cañon we travelled a considerable distance, when we found our friends had halted for dinner. Most of the way we had found the cañon but a few rods in width and walled in by almost perpendicular piles of granite and slate, but where our party had halted there was a beautiful little valley, several springs, and two or three small groves of willows and cottonwoods.

It does not take long for a party of prospectors to prepare a meal. The mules are first unpacked and turned out to graze; wood is then collected and a fire built, and by the time this is blazing several cooks are getting ready for business. Self-rising flour is placed in the same pans that are used in prospecting for gold; water is then added, and the whole is then stirred up with a spoon until of the proper consistency for pancakes. Soon two or three men, each with a frying-pan, are at work baking slapjacks, while as many more are frying the savory bacon; tea is being made in a coffee-pot, and soon all is ready. Each man then hunts up his tin plate, puts a handful of earth upon it and scours away all traces of the last meal, when he is ready for his allowance of bacon and slapjacks. Tin cups are used for the tea. These meals in the wilds of the mountains are eaten with a relish by the hardy prospector. There are generally a few raw onions to go with the bacon, and when a camp is made at night beans are cooked.

Of nights, too, when there is more time for cooking than during the noon halt, bread is baked. In making bread the miner mixes it in his prospecting-pan, as for slapjacks, and when it has been properly kneaded, takes it between his huge paws, and hammers it out in the shape of a large flat cake. This cake he places in his frying-pan and then stands it in front of his fire to bake, turning it over when one side is done.

Sometimes a regular loaf is made. When a loaf is decided upon, a large hole is dug in the ground, and a fire made in it. By the time the fire has burnt down and there is nothing left but a bed of coals, the loaf is manufactured. The coals are raked out of the pit, and the loaf is placed in a gold-pan and set in its bottom. Another gold-pan is turned over that containing the loaf, when the whole is covered with live coals, hot ashes and earth. In this way is made a loaf that is as sweet as any that ever came out of the oven of the baker. Beans—after they have been boiled until soft—are often baked in the same way, the camp-kettle containing them being buried in a pit in which a fire has been made.

[Illustration: THE SLAPJACK FEAT.]

In making slapjacks a miner considers himself a greenhorn if he is not able to turn them without doing it with a knife, after the fashion of a woman. He shuffles the cake about in the pan till it is loosened, then deftly tosses it into the air, catching it, batter side down, as it descends. This way of turning slapjacks is a trick, however, that some men find it impossible to learn. I once had a partner whose one dream of life it was to be able to turn a slapjack in this way. If he could but flip a slapjack into the air and catch it all right, he thought he would be perfectly happy, whether the diggings paid or not. One day, while in the cabin cooking slapjacks, he announced that he would turn one in the air or die. He was a man who weighed about one hundred and eighty pounds and had somehow got it into his head that in order to successfully perform the feat a great outlay of strength was required.

Taking hold of the handle of the frying-pan with both hands and getting out into the middle of the floor, where he could have plenty of room, he hustled the cake about in the pan until he found it was loose on all sides. He then squatted nearly to the floor, and, giving a mighty heave, sent the pancake flying upward. This done, he stood, frying-pan in hand, waiting for the cake to come down, in order that he might catch it. But that pancake never came down, it struck batter side against the ceiling, and there it stuck as fast as the wafer on a love-letter.

I have heard of men who were able to throw a slapjack up through the chimney, then run outside of the house and catch it before it struck the ground, but I have never had the good fortune to see the feat performed.

[Illustration: decoration]