At last, however, he did find a spot to lie down on, and, with a sigh of relief, lay back to indulge in repose. Alas! the spot was a myth—he merely dreamed it; the next moment he dropt, like a huge over-ripe pear, to the ground. Fortunately a bush broke the violence of his fall, and, springing up with a cry of consternation, he rushed towards the tree, expecting each instant to feel the terrible hug of his ursine enemy. The very marrow in his back-bone seemed to shrink, for he fancied that he actually felt the dreaded claws sinking into his flesh. In his haste he missed the branch, and fell violently forward, scratching himself terribly among the bushes. Again he rose, and a cold perspiration broke out upon him as he uttered an involuntary howl of terror, and once more leaped up at the limb of the oak, which he could just barely see. He caught it; despair nerved him, and in another moment he was safe, and panting violently among the branches.

We need scarcely say that this little episode gave his feelings such a tremendous shock that his tendency to sleep was thoroughly banished; but another and a better result flowed from it,—the involuntary hubbub created by his yells and crashing falls reached listening and not far-distant ears.

During their evening meal that day, Ned Sinton and his comrades had speculated pretty freely, and somewhat jocularly, on the probable result of the captain's hunting expedition—expressing opinions regarding the powers of the blunderbuss, which it was a shame, Larry O'Neil said, "to spake behind its back;" but as night drew on, they conversed more seriously, and when darkness had fairly set in they became anxious.

"It's quite clear that something's wrong," cried Ned Sinton, entering the tent hastily, "we must up and search for him. The captain's not the man to lose his way with a compass in his pocket and so many landmarks round him."

All the party rose at once, and began to buckle on belts and arm, while eagerly suggesting plans of search.

"Who can make a torch?" inquired Ned.

"Here's one ready made to hand," cried Maxton, seizing a huge pine-knot and lighting it.

"Some one must stay behind to look after our things. The new-comers who camped beside us to-day are not used to mining life, and don't sufficiently know the terrors of Lynch law. Do you stop, Maxton. Now then, the rest of you, come along."

Ned issued from the tent as he spoke, and walked at a rapid pace along the track leading up the valley, followed closely by Tom Collins, Larry O'Neil, and Bill Jones—all of whom were armed with rifles, revolvers, and bowie-knives. For a long time they walked on in silence, guided by the faint light of the stars, until they came to the flat rock which had formed the captain's dinner-table. Here they called a halt, in order to discuss the probability of their lost comrade having gone up the ravine. The question was soon settled by Larry, who discovered a few crumbs of the biscuit lying on the rock, and footprints leading up the ravine; for the captain, worthy man, had stepped recklessly into the little stream when he went to fill his pannikin, and his wet feet left a distinct track behind him for some distance.

"He can't have gone far up such a wild place as this," said Tom Collins, while they moved cautiously along. "Kindle the torch, Ned, it will light us on our way, and be a guide to the captain if he's within sight."

"It will enlighten enemies, too, if any are within range," replied Ned, hesitating.

"Oh, no fear," rejoined Tom, "our greatest enemy is darkness; here, Jones, hand me your match-box."

In a few seconds the torch flared forth, casting a broad glare of light on their path, as they advanced, examining the foot of precipices.

"Give a shout, Larry," said Ned.

Larry obeyed, and all listened intently, but, save the echo from the wild cliffs, no reply was heard.

Had the captain been wide-awake at the time, he would, doubtless, have heard the friendly shout, but his ears were dull from prolonged watching. It was thought needless to repeat the cry, so the party resumed their search with anxious forebodings in their hearts, though their lips were silent.

They had not proceeded far, however, when the noise occasioned by the captain's fall from the tree, as already described, struck upon their ears.

"Och! what's that?" exclaimed Larry, with a look of mingled surprise and superstitious fear.

For a minute the party seemed transformed into statues, as each listened intently to the mysterious sounds.

"They come from the other side of the point ahead," remarked Ned, in a whisper. "Light another torch, Larry, and come on—quick!"

Ned led the way at a run, holding one of the torches high above his head, and in a few minutes passed round the point above referred to. The glare of his torch immediately swept far ahead, and struck with gladsome beam on the now wakeful eye of the captain, who instantly greeted it with one of his own peculiarly powerful and eminently nautical roars.

"Hooroo!" yelled Larry, in reply, dashing forward at full speed. "Here we are all right, capting, comin' to the rescue; don't give in, capting; pitch into the blackguards—"

"Look out for the grizzly-bear," roared the captain, as his friends advanced at a run, waving their torches encouragingly.

The whole party came to a dead halt on this unexpected caution, and each cocked his piece as they looked, first into the gloom beyond, and then at each other, in surprise and perplexity.

"Halloo! captain, where are you?" shouted Ned.

"And where's the bear!" added Tom Collins.

"Right in front o' you," replied the captain, "about fifty yards on. The bear's at the bottom o' the tree, and I'm a-top of it. Come on, and fire together; but aim low, d'ye hear?"

"Ay, ay, sir," replied Bill Jones, as if he were answering a command on shipboard, while he advanced boldly in the direction indicated.

The others were abreast of him instantly, Ned and Larry holding the torches high in their left hands as they approached, step by step, with rifles ready for instant use.

"Have a care," cried the captain; "I see him. He seems to be crouchin' to make a rush."

This caused another halt; but as no rush was made, the party continued to advance very slowly.

"Oh! av ye would only shew yerself," said Larry, in a suppressed tone of exasperation at being kept so long in nervous expectation.

"I see him," cried Ned, taking aim.

The rest of the party cried "Where!" aimed in the same direction, and the whole fired a volley, the result of which was, that Captain Bunting fell a second time to the ground, crashing through the branches with a terrible noise, and alighting heavily at the foot of the tree. To the surprise of all, he instantly jumped up, and seizing Ned and Tom as they came up, shook them warmly by the hand.

"Och! are ye not shot, capting?" exclaimed Larry.

"Not a bit; not even hurt," answered the captain, laughing.

The fact was, that Captain Bunting, in his anxiety to escape being accidentally shot by his comrades, had climbed to the utmost possible height among the tender top branches of the oak. When the volley was fired, he lost his balance, fell through the tree, the under branches of which happily broke his fall, and finally alighted on the back of the grizzly-bear itself, which lay extended, and quite dead, on the ground.

"Faix we've polished him off for wance," cried Larry, in the excess of his triumph, as he stood looking at the fallen bear.

"Faix we've done nothing of the sort," retorted Tom Collins, who was examining the carcase. "It's been dead for hours, and is quite cold. Every bullet has missed, too, for the shot that settled him is on the side next the ground. So much for hasty shooting. Had bruin been alive when we fired, I'm inclined to think that some of us would not be alive now."

"Now, that's wot I wos sure of," remarked Bill Jones. "Wot I says is this—w'en yer goin' aloft to reef to'sails, don't be in a hurry. It's o' no manner o' use tryin' to shove on the wind. If ye've got a thing to do, do it slow—slow an' sure. If ye haven't got a thing to do, in coorse ye can't do it, but if ye have, don't be in a hurry—I says."

Bill Jones's maxim is undoubtedly a good one. Not a scratch had the bear received from any one of the party. The bullet of Black Jim had laid him low. Although hurriedly aimed, it had reached the animal's heart, and all the time that Captain Bunting was struggling to overcome his irresistible tendency to sleep, poor bruin was lying a helpless and lifeless body at the foot of the oak-tree.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

AH-WOW SAVED FROM AN UNTIMELY FATE—LYNCH LAW ENFORCED—NED SINTON RESOLVES TO RENOUNCE GOLD-DIGGING FOR A TIME, AND TOM COLLINS SECONDS HIM.

Ah-wow sat on the stump of an oak-tree, looking, to use a familiar, though incorrect expression, very blue indeed. And no wonder, for Ah-wow was going to be hanged. Perhaps, courteous reader, you think we are joking, but we assure you we are not. Ah-wow had just been found guilty, or pronounced guilty—which, at the diggings, meant the same thing—of stealing two thousand dollars' worth of gold-dust, and was about to expiate his crime on the branch of a tree.

There could be no doubt of his guilt; so said the enlightened jury who tried him; so said the half-tipsy judge who condemned him; and so said the amiable populace which had assembled to witness his execution. It cannot be denied that appearances went very much against Ah-wow—so much so, that Maxton, and even Captain Bunting, entertained suspicions as to his innocence, though they pleaded hard for his pardon. The gold had been discovered hid near the Chinaman's tent, and the bag containing it was recognised and sworn to by at least a dozen of the diggers as that belonging to the man from whom the gold had been stolen. The only point that puzzled the jury was the strong assertions of Captain Bunting, Maxton, and Collins, that, to their certain belief, the poor Celestial had dug beside them each day, and slept beside them each night for three weeks past, at a distance of three miles from the spot where the robbery took place. But the jury were determined to hang somebody, so they shut their ears to all and sundry, save and except to those who cried out, "String the riptile up—sarves him right!"

Ko-sing also sat on the tree-stump, endeavouring to comfort Ah-wow by stroking his pig-tail and howling occasionally in an undertone. It seemed indeed that the poor man's career was drawing to a close, for two men advanced, and, seizing his pinioned arms, led him under the fatal limb; but a short respite occurred in consequence of a commotion in the outskirts of the crowd, where two men were seen forcing a passage towards the centre. Ned Sinton and Larry O'Neil had been away in the mountains prospecting at the time when Ah-wow was captured and led to the settlement, near the first residence of our adventurers, to stand his trial. The others accompanied the condemned man, in order, if possible, to save him, leaving Jones behind to guard their property, and acquaint Ned with the state of affairs on his return. Our hero knew too well the rapid course of Lynch law to hesitate. He started at once with Larry down the stream, to save, if possible, the life of his servant, for whom he felt a curious sort of patronising affection, and who he was sure must be innocent. He arrived just in time.

"Howld on, boys," cried Larry, flourishing his felt hat as they pushed through the crowd.

"Stay, friends," cried Ned, gaining the centre of the circle at last; "don't act hastily. This man is my servant."

"That don't make him an honest man, I guess," said a cynical bystander.

"Perhaps not," retorted Ned; "but it binds me in honour to clear him, if I can."

"Hear, hear," said several voices; "get up on the stump an' fire away, stranger."

Ned obeyed.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I can swear, in the first place, that the Chinaman has not been a quarter of a mile from my tent for three weeks past, so that he could not have stolen the gold—"

"How then came it beside his tent?" inquired a voice.

"I'll tell you, if you will listen. This morning early I started on a prospecting ramble up the stream, and not long after I set out I caught a glance of that villain Black Jim, who, you know, has been supposed for some time back to have been lurking in the neighbourhood. He ran off the moment he caught sight of me, and although I followed him at full speed for a considerable distance, he succeeded in escaping. However, I noticed the print of his footsteps, in a muddy place over which he passed, and observed that his right boot had no heel. On returning home this afternoon, and hearing what had happened, I went to the spot where the bag of gold had been discovered, and there, sure enough, I found footprints, one of which shewed that the wearer's right boot had no heel. Now, gentlemen, it don't need much speaking to make so clear a matter clearer, I leave you to judge whether this robbery has been committed by the Chinaman or not."

Ned's speech was received with various cries; some of which shewed that the diggers were not satisfied with his explanation, and Ah-wow's fate still trembled in the balance, when the owner of the bag of gold stepped forward and admitted that he had observed similar foot-marks in the neighbourhood of his tent just after the robbery was committed, and said that he believed the Chinaman was innocent. This set the matter at rest. Ah-wow was cast loose and congratulated by several of the bystanders on his escape, but there seemed a pretty general feeling amongst many of the others that they had been unjustly deprived of their prey, and there is no saying what might have happened had not another culprit appeared on the scene to divert their attention.

The man who was led forward had all the marks of a thorough desperado about him. From his language it was impossible to judge what country had the honour of giving him birth, but it was suspected that his last residence had been Botany Bay. Had this man's innocence been ever so clearly proved he could not have escaped from such judges in their then disappointed state of mind; but his guilt was unquestionable. He had been caught in the act of stealing from a monte table. The sum was not very large, however, so it was thought a little too severe to hang him; but he was condemned to have his head shaved, his ears cut off, and to receive a hundred lashes.

The sentence was executed promptly, notwithstanding the earnest remonstrances of a few of the better-disposed among the crowd: and Ned, seeing that he could do nothing to mitigate the punishment of the poor wretch, left the spot with his comrades and the rescued Chinaman.

That night, as they all sat round their camp-fire, eating supper with a degree of zest known only to those who labour at severe and out-of-door occupation all day, Ned Sinton astonished his companions not a little, by stating his intention to leave them for the purpose of making a tour through the country.

"Make a tour!" exclaimed Maxton, in surprise.

"An' lave all the goold!" cried Larry O'Neil, pausing in his mastication of a tough lump of bear-steak.

"Why, boy," said Captain Bunting, laying down his knife, and looking at Ned in amazement, "what's put that in your head, eh?"

"Being somewhat tired of grubbing in the mud has put it into my head," replied Ned, smiling. "The fact is, comrades, that I feel disposed for a ramble, and I don't feel bent on making a fortune. You may, perhaps, be surprised to hear such a statement, but—"

"Not at all—by no means," interrupted Bill Jones; "I'm surprised at nothin' in this here country. If I seed a first-rate man-o'-war comin' up the valley at fifteen knots, with stun'-sails alow and aloft, stem on, against the wind, an' carryin' all before it, like nothin', I wouldn't be surprised, not a bit, so I wouldn't!"

"Well, perhaps not," resumed Ned; "but, surprised or not, my statement is true. I don't care about making my 'pile' in a hurry. Life was not given to us to spend it in making or digging gold; and, being quite satisfied, in the meantime, with the five or six hundred pounds of profits that fall to my share, I am resolved to make over my unfinished claim to the firm, and set out on my travels through the country. I shall buckle on my bowie-knife and revolver, and go where fancy leads me, as long as my funds last; when they are exhausted, I will return, and set to work again. Now, who will go with me?"

"Are you in earnest?" asked Tom Collins.

"In earnest! ay, that am I; never was more so in my life. Why, I feel quite ashamed of myself. Here have I been living for weeks in one of the most romantic and beautiful parts of this world, without taking more notice of it, almost, than if it did not exist. Do you think that with youth and health, and a desire to see everything that is beautiful in creation, I'm going to stand all day and every day up to the knees in dirty water, scraping up little particles of gold? Not I! I mean to travel as long as I have a dollar in my pocket; when that is empty, I'll work."

Ned spoke in a half-jesting tone, but there is no doubt that he gave utterance to the real feelings of his heart. He felt none of that eager thirst for gold which burned, like a fever, in the souls of hundreds and thousands of the men who poured at that time in a continuous and ever-increasing stream into California. Gold he valued merely as a means of accomplishing present ends; he had no idea of laying it up for the future; married men, he thought, might, perhaps, with propriety, amass money for the benefit of their families, but he wasn't a married man, and didn't mean to be one, so he felt in duty bound to spend all the gold he dug out of the earth.

We do not pretend to enter into a disquisition as to the correctness or incorrectness of Ned's opinions; we merely state them, leaving our reader to exercise his own reasoning powers on the subject, if so disposed.

For a few seconds after Ned's last speech, no sound escaped the lips of his comrades, save those resulting from the process of mastication. At last, Tom Collins threw down his knife, and slapped his thigh energetically, as he exclaimed, "I'll go with you, Ned! I've made up my mind. I'm tired of digging, too; and I'm game for a ramble into the heart of the Rocky Mountains, if you like."

"Bravo! Tom," cried Captain Bunting, slapping his companion on the shoulder—"well and bravely spoken; but you're a goose for all that, and so, saving his presence, is Commodore Ned Sinton. Why, you'll just waste two months or so in profitless wandering, and return beggars to the Little Creek to begin the work all over again. Take my advice, lads—the advice of an old salt, who knows a thing or two—and remain where you are till we have worked out all the gold hereabouts. After that you may talk of shifting."

"You're a very sour old salt to endeavour to damp our spirits in that way at the outset, but it won't do; my mind is made up, and I'm glad to find that there is at least one of the party who is strong enough to break these golden chains."

"Faix I comed here for goold, an' I stop here for the same raison," remarked Larry, scraping the last morsels from the bottom of the kettle with an iron spoon; "I've thravelled more nor enough in me day, so I can affoord to stop at home now."

"Get out, you renegade! do you call this home?" cried Ned.

"'Tis all that's of it at present, anyhow."

"When shall we start?" inquired Tom Collins.

"To-morrow. We have few preparations to make, and the sooner we go the better; for when the rainy season sets in, our journeying will be stopped perforce. I have a plan in my mind which I shall detail to you after we retire to rest. Meanwhile I'll go and improve my bed, which has been so uncomfortable for some nights past that my very bones are aching."

Ned rose, took up an axe, and, going into the bush in rear of the tent, cut down a young pine-tree, the tender shoots and branches of which he stripped off, and strewed thickly on the ground on which he was wont to sleep; over these he spread two thick blankets, and on this simple but springy and comfortable couch he and Tom Coffins lay down side by side to talk over their future plans, while their comrades snored around them.

Daylight found them still talking; so, pausing by mutual consent, they snatched an hour's repose before commencing the needful preparations for their contemplated journey.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

NED AND TOM TAKE TO WANDERING—PHILOSOPHICAL SPECULATIONS—A STARTLING APPARITION—THE DIGGER INDIANS—WATER BOILED IN A BASKET—THE GLOOMY PASS—THE ATTACK BY ROBBERS—THE FIGHT—A SURPRISE—THE ENCAMPMENT.

Change is one of the laws of nature. We refer not to small-change, reader, but to physical, material change. Everything is given to change; men, and things, and place, and circumstances, all change, more or less, as time rolls on in its endless course. Following, then, this inevitable law of nature, we, too, will change the scene, and convey our reader deeper in among the plains and mountains of the far, "far west."

It is a beautiful evening in July. The hot season has not yet succeeded in burning up all nature into a dry russet-brown. The whole face of the country is green and fresh after a recent shower, which has left myriads of diamond-drops trembling from the point of every leaf and blade. A wide valley, of a noble park-like appearance, is spread out before us, with scattered groups of trees all over it, blue mountain-ranges in the far distance circling round it, and a bright stream winding down its emerald breast. On the hill-sides the wild-flowers grow so thickly that they form a soft, thick couch to lie upon, immense trees, chiefly pines and cedars, rise here and there like giants above their fellows. Oaks, too, are numerous, and the scene in many places is covered with mansanita underwood, a graceful and beautiful shrub. The trees and shrubbery, however, are not so thickly planted as to intercept the view, and the ground undulates so much that occasionally we overtop them, and obtain a glimpse of the wide vale before us. Over the whole landscape there is a golden sunny haze, that enriches while it softens every object, and the balmy atmosphere is laden with the sweet perfume called forth by the passing shower.

One might fancy Eden to have been somewhat similar to this, and here, as there, the presence of the Lord might be recognised in a higher degree than in most other parts of this earth, for, in this almost untrodden wilderness, His pre-eminently beautiful works have not yet to any great extent been marred by the hand of man.

Far away towards the north, two horsemen may be seen wending their way through the country at a slow, ambling pace, as if they would fain prolong their ride in such a lovely vale. The one is Ned Sinton, the other Tom Collins.

It had cost these worthies a week of steady riding, to reach the spot on which we now find them, during which time they had passed through great varieties of scenery, had seen many specimens of digging-life, and had experienced not a few vicissitudes; but their griefs were few and slight compared with their enjoyments, and, at the moment we overtake them, they were riding they knew not and they cared not whither! Sufficient for them to know that the wilds before them were illimitable; that their steeds were of the best and fleetest Mexican breed; that their purses were well-lined with dollars and gold-dust; that they were armed with rifles, pistols, knives, and ammunition, to the teeth; and that the land was swarming with game.

"'Tis a perfect paradise!" exclaimed Tom Collins, as they reined up on the brow of a hill to gaze at the magnificent prospect before them.

"Strange," murmured Ned, half soliloquising, "that, although so wild and uncultivated, it should remind me so forcibly of home. Yonder bend in the stream, and the scenery round it, is so like to the spot where I was born, and where I spent my earliest years, that I can almost fancy the old house will come into view at the next turn."

"It does indeed remind one of the cultivated parks of England," replied Tom; "but almost all my early associations are connected with cities. I have seen little of uncontaminated nature all my life, except the blue sky through chimney tops, and even that was seen through a medium of smoke."

"Do you know," remarked Ned, as they resumed their journey at a slow pace, "it has always seemed to me that cities are unnatural monstrosities, and that there should be no such things!"

"Indeed," replied Tom, laughing; "how, then, would you have men to live?"

"In the country, of course, in cottages and detached houses. I would sow London, Liverpool, Manchester, etcetera, broadcast over the land, so that there would be no spot in Britain in which there were not clusters of human dwellings, each with its little garden around it, and yet no spot on which a city could be found."

"Hum, rather awkward for the transaction of business, I fear," suggested Tom.

"Not a bit; our distances would be greater, but we could overcome that difficulty by using horses more than we do—and railroads."

"And how would you manage with huge manufactories?" inquired Tom.

"I've not been able to solve that difficulty yet," replied Ned, smiling; "but my not being able to point out how things may be put right, does not, in the least degree, alter the fact that, as they are at present, they are wrong."

"Most true, my sagacious friend," said Tom; "but, pray, how do you prove the fact that things are wrong?"

"I prove it thus:—You admit, I suppose, that the air of all large cities is unhealthy, as compared with that of the country, and that men and women who dwell in cities are neither so robust nor so healthy as those who dwell in country places?"

"I'm not sure that I do admit it," answered Tom.

"Surely you don't deny that people of the cities deem it a necessary of life to get off to the country at least once a year, in order to recruit, and that they invariably return better in health than when they left?"

"True; but that is the result of change."

"Ay," added Ned, "the result of change from worse to better."

"Well, I admit it for the sake of argument."

"Well, then, if the building of cities necessarily and inevitably creates a condition of atmosphere which is, to some extent, no matter how slight, prejudicial to health, those who build them and dwell in them are knowingly damaging the life which has been given them to be cherished and taken care of."

"Ned," said Tom, quietly, "you're a goose!"

"Tom," retorted Ned, "I know it; but, in the sense in which you apply the term, all men are geese. They are divided into two classes—namely, geese who are such because they can't and won't listen to reason, and geese who are such because they take the trouble to talk philosophically to the former; but to return from this digression, what think you of the argument?"

Tom replied by reining up his steed, pointing to an object in front, and inquiring, "What think you of that?"

The object referred to was a man, but, in appearance at least, he was not many degrees removed from the monkey. He was a black, squat, hideous-looking native, and his whole costume, besides the little strip of cloth usually worn by natives round the loins, consisted of a black silk hat and a pair of Wellington boots!

Dear reader, do not suppose that I am trying to impose upon your good-natured credulity. What I state is a fact, however unlikely it may appear in your eyes.

The natives of this part of the country are called digger Indians, not with reference to gold-digging, but from the fact of their digging subterranean dwellings, in which they pass the winter, and also from the fact that they grub in the earth a good deal for roots, on which they partly subsist. They are degraded, miserable creatures, and altogether uncivilised, besides being diminutive in stature.

Soon after the first flood of gold-hunters swept over their lands these poor creatures learned the value of gold, but they were too lazy to work diligently for it. They contented themselves with washing out enough to purchase a few articles of luxury, in the shape of cast-off apparel, from the white men. When stores began to be erected here and there throughout the country, they visited them to purchase fresh provisions and articles of dress, of which latter they soon became passionately fond.

But the digger Indians were not particular as to style or fashion— glitter and gay colour were the chief elements of attraction. Sometimes a naked savage might be seen going about with a second-hand dress-coat put on the wrong way, and buttoned up the back. Another would content himself with a red silk handkerchief tied round his head or shoulders. A third would thrust his spindle-shanks through the arms of a sleeved vest, and button the body round his loins; while a fourth, like the one now under consideration, would parade about in a hat and boots.

The poor digger had drawn the right boot on the left foot, and the left boot on the right—a matter of little moment, however, as they were immensely too large for him, as was also the hat, which only remained on his brows by being placed very much back on the head. He was a most singular being, and Ned and Tom, after the first glance of astonishment, were so un-mannered as to laugh at him until they almost fell off their horses. The digger was by no means disconcerted. He evidently was accustomed to the free and easy manners of white men, and while they rolled in their saddles, he stood quietly beside them, grinning hideously from ear to ear.

"Truly, a rare specimen of humanity," cried Ned, when he recovered his composure. "Where did you come from, old boy?"

The digger shook his head, and uttered some unintelligible words.

"It's of no use speaking to him; he don't understand English," said Tom Collins, with a somewhat puzzled expression.

The two friends made several attempts to ask him, by signs, where he lived, but they utterly failed. Their first efforts had the effect of making the man laugh, but their second attempts, being more energetic and extravagant, frightened him so that he manifested a disposition to run away. This disposition they purposely encouraged until he fairly took to his heels, and, by following him, they at last came upon the village in which his tribe resided.

Here they found an immense assemblage of men, and women, and children, whose appearance denoted dirtiness, laziness, and poverty. They were almost all in a state bordering on nudity, but a few of them wore miscellaneous portions of European apparel. The hair of the men was long, except on the forehead, where it was cut square, just above the eyebrows. The children wore no clothes at all. The infants were carried on stiff cradles, similar to those used by North American Indians. They all resided in tents, made of brushwood and sticks, and hundreds of mangy, half-starved curs dwelt along with them.

The hero of the hat and boots was soon propitiated by the gift of a few inches of tobacco, and Ned Sinton and Tom Collins were quickly on intimate terms with the whole tribe.

It is difficult to resist the tendency to laugh when a human being stands before you in a ludicrously-meagre costume, making hideous grimaces with his features, and remarkable contortions with his limbs, in the vain efforts to make himself understood by one who does not speak his language! Ned's powers of endurance were tested in this way by the chief of the tribe, an elderly man with a beard so sparse that each stumpy hair might have been easily counted.

This individual was clad in the rough, ragged blue coat usually worn by Irish labourers of the poorest class. It was donned with the tails in front; and two brass buttons, the last survivors of a once glittering double row, fastened it across the back of its savage owner.

"What can he mean?" said Ned, at the close of a series of pantomimic speeches, in which the Indian vainly endeavoured to get him to understand something having reference to the mountains beyond, for he pointed repeatedly towards them.

"It seems to me that he would have us understand," said Tom, "that the road lies before us, and the sooner we take ourselves off the better."

Ned shook his head. "I don't think that likely; he seems rather to wish us to remain; more than once he has pointed to his tent, and beckoned us to enter."

"Perhaps the old fellow wants us to become members of his tribe," suggested Tom. "Evidently he cannot lead his braves on the war-path as he was wont to do, and he wishes to make you chief in his room. What think you? Shall we remain? The blue coat would suit you admirably."

During this colloquy the old savage looked from one speaker to another with great eagerness, as if trying to comprehend what they said, then, renewing his gesticulations, he succeeded at last in convincing the travellers that he wished them not to pursue their journey any further, in the direction in which they were going. This was a request with which they did not, however, feel disposed to comply; but seeing that he was particularly anxious that they should accept of his hospitality, they dismounted, and, fastening their horses to a tree close beside the opening of the chief's hut, they entered.

The inside of this curious bee-hive of a dwelling was dirty and dark, besides being half-full of smoke, created by the pipe of a squaw—the old man's wife—who regaled herself there with the soothing weed. There were several dogs there also, and two particularly small infants in wooden cradles, who were tied up like mummies, and did nothing but stare right before them into space.

"What's that?" inquired Tom, pointing to a basketful of smoking water.

"It looks like a basket," replied Ned.

"It is a basket," remarked Tom, examining the article in question, "and, as I live, superb soup in it."

"Tom," said Ned Sinton, solemnly, "have a care; if it is soup, depend upon it, dogs or rats form the basis of its composition."

"Ned," said Tom, with equal solemnity, "eat, and ask no questions."

Tom followed his own advice by accepting a dish of soup, with a large lump of meat in it, which was at that moment offered to him by the old chief who also urged Ned Sinton to partake; but he declined, and, lighting his pipe, proceeded to enjoy a smoke, at the same time handing the old man a plug of tobacco, which he accepted promptly, and began to use forthwith.

While thus engaged, they had an opportunity of observing how the squaw boiled water in a basket. Laying aside her pipe, she hauled out a goody-sized and very neatly-made basket of wicker-work, so closely woven by her own ingenious hands, that it was perfectly water-tight; this she three-quarters filled, and then put into it red-hot stones, which she brought in from a fire kindled outside. The stones were thrown in in succession, till the temperature was raised to the boiling point, and afterwards a little dead animal was put into the basket.

The sight of this caused Tom Collins to terminate his meal somewhat abruptly, and induced Ned to advise him to try a little more.

"No, thank you," replied Tom, lighting his pipe hastily, and taking up a bow and several arrows, which he appeared to regard with more than usual interest. The bow was beautifully made;—rather short, and tipped with horn.

The arrows were formed of two distinct pieces of wood spliced together, and were shod with flint; they were feathered in the usual way. All the articles manufactured by these natives were neatly done, and evinced considerable skill in the use of their few and simple tools.

After resting half-an-hour, the two friends rose to depart, and again the old Indian manifested much anxiety to prevail on them to remain; but resisting all his entreaties, they mounted their horses and rode away, carrying with them the good wishes of the community, by the courtesy of their manners, and a somewhat liberal distribution of tobacco at parting.

The country through which they passed became wilder at every step, for each hour brought them visibly nearer the mountain-range, and towards night-fall they entered one of the smaller passes or ravines that divided the lower range of hills at which they first arrived. Here a rugged precipice, from which projected pendent rocks and scrubby trees, rose abruptly on the right of the road, and a dense thicket of underwood, mingled with huge masses of fallen rock, lay on their left. We use the word road advisedly, for the broad highway of the flowering plains, over which the horsemen had just passed, narrowed at this spot as it entered the ravine, and was a pretty-well-defined path, over which parties of diggers and wandering Indians occasionally passed.

"Does not this wild spot remind you of the nursery tales we used to read?" said Ned, as they entered the somewhat gloomy defile, "which used to begin, 'Once upon a time—'"

"Hist, Ned, is that a grizzly?"

Both riders drew up abruptly, and grasped their rifles.

"I hear nothing," whispered Ned.

"It must have been imagination," said Tom, throwing his rifle carelessly over his left arm, as they again advanced. The gloom of the locality, which was deepened by the rapidly-gathering shades of night, quieted their spirits, and induced them to ride on in silence. About fifty yards further on, the rustling in the bushes was again heard, and both travellers pulled up and listened intently.

"Pshaw!" cried Ned, at last, urging his horse forward, and throwing his piece on his shoulder, "we are starting at the rustling of the night wind; come, come, Tom, don't let us indulge superstitious feelings—"

At that moment there was a crash in the bushes on both sides of them, and their horses reared wildly, as four men rushed upon them. Before their steeds became manageable, they were each seized by a leg, and hurled from their saddles. In the fall, their rifles were thrown out of their grasp into the bushes; but this mattered little, for in a close struggle pistols are better weapons. Seizing their revolvers, Ned and Tom instantly sprang up, and fired at their assailants, but without effect, both being so much shaken by their fall. The robbers returned the fire, also without effect. In the scuffle, Ned was separated from his friend, and only knew that he maintained the fight manfully, from the occasional shots that were fired near him. His whole attention, however, had to be concentrated on the two stalwart ruffians with whom he was engaged.

Five or six shots were fired at a few yards' distance, quick as lightning, yet, strange to say, all missed. Then the taller of the two opposed to Ned, hurled his revolver full in his face, and rushed at him. The pistol struck Ned on the chest, and almost felled him, but he retained his position, and met the highwayman with a well-directed blow of his fist right between the eyes. Both went down, under the impetus of the rush, and the second robber immediately sprang upon Ned, and seized him by the throat. But he little knew the strength of the man with whom he had to deal. Our hero caught him in the iron grasp of his right hand, while, with his left, he hurled aside the almost inanimate form of his first assailant; then, throwing the other on his back, he placed his knee on his chest, and drew his bowie-knife.

Even in the terrible passion of mortal combat, Ned shuddered at the thought of slaying a helpless opponent. He threw the knife aside, and struck the man violently with his fist on the forehead, and then sprang up to rescue Tom who, although he had succeeded at the outset in felling one of the robbers with the butt of his pistol, was still engaged in doubtful strife with a man of great size and power. When Ned came up, the two were down on their knees, each grasping the other's wrist in order to prevent their bowie-knives from being used. Their struggles were terrible; for each knew that the first who freed his right hand would instantly take the other's life. Ned settled the matter, however, by again using his fist, which he applied so promptly to the back of the robber's neck, that he dropped as if he had been shot.

"Thank you—God bless you, Ned," gasped Tom, as soon as he recovered breath; "you have saved my life, for certainly I could not have held out a minute longer. The villain has all but broken my right arm."

"Never mind," cried Ned, stooping down, and turning the stunned robber over on his face, "give me a hand, boy; we must not let the fellows recover and find themselves free to begin the work over again. Take that fellow's neckcloth and tie his hands behind his back."

Tom obeyed at once, and in a few minutes the four highwaymen were bound hand and foot, and laid at the side of the road.

"Now," said Ned, "we must push on to the nearest settlement hot-haste, and bring a party out to escort—Halloo! Tom, are you wounded?"

"Not badly—a mere cut on the head."

"Why, your face is all covered with blood!"

"It's only in consequence of my wiping it with a bloody handkerchief, then; but you can examine, and satisfy yourself."

"The wound is but slight, I see," rejoined Ned, after a brief manipulation of Tom's skull; "now, then, let us away."

"We'll have to catch our horses first, and that won't be an easy matter."

Tom was right. It cost them half-an-hour to secure them and recover their rifles and other arms, which had been scattered over the field of battle. On returning to the spot where the robbers lay, they found them all partially recovered, and struggling violently to free themselves. Three of them failed even to slacken their bonds, but the fourth, the powerful man who had nearly overcome Tom Collins, had well-nigh freed his hands when his captors came up.

"Lie quiet," said Ned, in a low tone, "if you don't want the butt of my rifle on your skull."

The man lay down instantly.

"Tom, go and cut a stake six feet long, and I'll watch these fellows till you come back."

The stake was soon brought and lashed to the robber's back in such a manner that he was rendered utterly powerless. The others were secured in a similar manner, and then the two travellers rode forward at a gallop.

For nearly an hour they continued to advance without speaking or drawing rein. At the end of that time, while sweeping round the jutting base of a precipitous rock, they almost ran into a band of horsemen who were trotting briskly towards them. Both parties halted, and threw forward their rifles, or drew their revolvers for instant use, gazing at each other the while in silent surprise at the suddenness of their meeting.

"Give in, ye villains," at last shouted a stern voice, "or we'll blow ye out o' the saddle. You've no chance; down your arms, I say."

"Not until I know what right you have to command us," replied Ned, somewhat nettled at the overbearing tone of his opponent. "We are peaceable travellers, desiring to hurt no one; but if we were not, surely so large a party need not be afraid. We don't intend to run away, still less do we intend to dispute your passage."

The strangers lowered their fire-arms, as if half-ashamed at being surprised into a state of alarm by two men.

"Who said we were 'afraid,' young man?" continued the first speaker, riding up with his comrades, and eyeing the travellers narrowly. "Where have you come from, and how comes it that your clothes are torn, and your faces covered with blood?"

The party of horsemen edged forward, as he spoke, in such a manner as to surround the two friends, but Ned, although he observed the movement, was unconcerned, as, from the looks of the party, he felt certain they were good men and true.

"You are a close interrogator for a stranger," he replied. "Perhaps you will inform me where you have come from, and what is your errand in these lonesome places at this hour of the night?"

"I'll tell ye wot it is, stranger," answered another of the party—a big, insolent sort of fellow—"we're out after a band o' scoundrels that have infested them parts for a long time, an' it strikes me you know more about them than we do."

"Perhaps you are right," answered Ned.

"Mayhap they're not very, far off from where we're standin'," continued the man, laying his hand on Tom Collins's shoulder. Tom gave him a look that induced him to remove the hand.

"Right again," rejoined Ned, with a smile. "I know where the villains are, and I'll lead you to them in an hour, if you choose to follow me."

The men looked at each other in surprise.

"You'll not object to some o' us ridin' before, an' some behind ye!" said the second speaker, "jist by way o' preventin' yer hosses from runnin' away; they looks a little skeary."

"By no means," answered Ned, "lead on; but keep off the edge of the track till I call a halt."

"Why so, stranger?"

"Never mind, but do as I bid you."

The tone in which this was said effectually silenced the man, and during the ride no further questions were asked. About a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards the moon rose, and they advanced at such a rapid pace that in a short time they were close upon the spot where the battle had taken place. Just before reaching it Ned called a halt, and directed the party to dismount and follow him on foot. Although a good deal surprised, they obeyed without question; for our hero possessed, in an eminent degree, the power of constituting himself a leader among those with whom he chanced to come into contact.

Fastening his horse to a tree, Ned led the men forward a hundred yards.

"Are these the men you search for!" he inquired.

"They are, sir," exclaimed one of the party, in surprise, as he stooped to examine the features of the robbers, who lay where they had been left.

"Halloo!" exclaimed Tom Collins, "I say, the biggest fellow's gone! Didn't we lay him hereabouts?"

"Eh! dear me, yes; why, this is the very spot, I do believe—"

All further remarks were checked at that moment by the sound of horses' hoofs approaching, and, almost before any one could turn round, a horseman came thundering down the pass at full gallop. Uttering a savage laugh of derision, he discharged his pistol full into the centre of the knot of men as he passed, and, in another moment, was out of sight. Several of the onlookers had presence of mind enough to draw their pistols and fire at the retreating figure, but apparently without effect.

"It's him!" cried Tom Collins; "and he's mounted on your horse, Ned."

"After him, lads!" shouted Ned, as he ran back towards the place where the horses were fastened. "Whose is the best horse?"

"Hold on, stranger," said one of the men, as he ran up to Ned, "ye may save yer wind. None o' the horses can overtake your one, I guess. I was lookin' at him as we came along. It would only be losin' time for nothin', an' he's miles ahead by this time."

Ned Sinton felt that the man's remarks were too true, so he returned to the spot where the remaining robbers lay, and found that the miners had cut their fastenings, and were busily engaged in rebinding their hands behind them, preparatory to carrying them back to their settlement. It was discovered that the lashings of one of the men had been partly severed with a knife, and, as he could not have done it himself, it was plain that the robber who had escaped must have done it, and that the opportune arrival of the party had prevented him from accomplishing his purpose. How the man had broken his own bonds was a mystery that could not now be solved, but it was conjectured they must have been too weak, and that he had burst them by main strength.

Another discovery was now made, namely, that one of the three robbers secured was no other than Black Jim himself; the darkness of the night had prevented Ned and Tom from making this discovery during the fight.

In less time than we have taken to describe it, the robbers were secured, and each was mounted behind one of his captors.

"Ain't you goin' with us?" inquired one of the men, observing that Ned Sinton stood leaning on his rifle, as if he meant to remain behind.

"No," answered Ned; "my companion and I have travelled far to-day, besides fighting a somewhat tough battle; we mean to camp here for the night, and shall proceed to your settlement to-morrow."

The men endeavoured to dissuade them from their purpose, but they were both fatigued, and persisted in their determination. The impression they had made, however, on their new friends was so favourable, that one of their number, a Yankee, offered the loan of his horse to Ned, an offer which the latter accepted thankfully, promising to return it safe and sound early on the following day. Five minutes later the sound of the retreating hoofs died away, and the travellers stood silently side by side in the gloomy ravine.

For a few minutes neither spoke; then Ned heaved a sigh, and, looking in his companion's face with a serio-comically-sad expression, said:

"It may not, perhaps, have occurred to you, Tom, but are you aware that we are a couple of beggars?"

"If you use the term in its slang sense, and mean to insinuate that we are a couple of unfortunate beggars, I agree with you."

"Well, I've no objection," rejoined Ned, "to your taking my words in that sense; but I mean to say that, over and above that, we are real, veritable, bona fide beggars, inasmuch as we have not a sixpence in the world."

Tom Collins's visage grew exceedingly long.

"Our united purse," pursued Ned, "hung, as you are aware, at my saddle-bow, and yon unmitigated villain who appropriated my good steed, is now in possession of all our hard-earned gold!"

Tom's countenance became preternaturally grave, but he did not venture to speak.

"Now," continued Ned, forcing a smile, "there is nothing for it but to make for the nearest diggings, commence work again, and postpone our travels to a future and more convenient season. We may laugh at it as we please, my dear fellow, but there's no denying that we are in what the Yankees would call an 'oncommon fix.'"

Ned's remark as to "laughing at it," was altogether uncalled for and inappropriate, for his own smile might have been more correctly termed a grin, and nothing was further from Tom Collins's thoughts at that moment than laughing.

"Are the victuals gone too?" inquired Ned, hastily.

Both turned their eyes towards Tom Collins's horse, which grazed hard by, and both heaved a sigh of relief on observing that the saddle-bags were safe. This was a small drop of comfort in their otherwise bitter cup, and they made the most of it. Each, as if by a common impulse, pretending that he cared very little about the matter, and assuming that the other stood in need of being cheered and comforted, went about the preparations for encamping with a degree of reckless joviality that insensibly raised their spirits, not only up to but considerably above the natural level; and when at last they had spread out their viands, and lighted their fire and their pipes, they were, according to Tom's assertion, "happy as kings."

The choosing of a spot to encamp on formed the subject of an amicable dispute.

"I recommend the level turf under this oak," said Ned, pointing to a huge old tree, whose gnarled limbs covered a wide space of level sward.

"It's too low," objected Tom, (Tom could always object—a quality which, while it acted like an agreeable dash of cayenne thrown into the conversation of some of his friends, proved to be sparks applied to gunpowder in that of others;) "it's too low, and, doubtless, moist. I think that yonder pine, with its spreading branches and sweet-smelling cones, and carpet of moss below, is a much more fitting spot."

"Now, who is to decide the question if I don't give in, Tom? For I assume, of course, that you will never give in."

At that moment an accident occurred which decided the question for them. It frequently happens that some of the huge, heavy branches of the oaks in America become so thoroughly dried and brittle by the intense heat of summer, that they snap off without a moment's warning, often when there is not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf. This propensity is so well-known to Californian travellers that they are somewhat careful in selecting their camping ground, yet, despite all their care, an occasional life is lost by the falling of such branches.

An event of this kind occurred at the present time. The words had barely passed Ned's lips, when a large limb of the oak beside which they stood snapt off with a loud report, and fell with a crash to the ground.

"That settles it," said Tom, somewhat seriously, as he led his horse towards the pine-tree, and proceeded to spread his blanket beneath its branches.

In a few minutes the bright flame of their camp-fire threw a lurid glare on the trees and projecting cliffs of the wild pass, while they cooked and ate their frugal meal of jerked beef and biscuit. They conversed little during the repast or after it, for drowsiness began to steal over them, and it was not long before they laid their heads, side by side, on their saddles, and murmuring "Good-night," forgot their troubles in the embrace of deep, refreshing slumber.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

A CURIOUS AND VALUABLE DRAUGHT—LYNCH LAW APPLIED—BLACK JIM'S CONFESSION—NED BECOMES A PAINTER, AND FINDS THE PROFESSION PROFITABLE AS WELL AS AMUSING—THE FIRST PORTRAIT.

Next morning the travellers were up and away by daybreak, and in the afternoon they came upon a solitary miner who was prospecting in a gulch near the road-side.

This word gulch is applied to the peculiarly abrupt, short ravines, which are a characteristic feature in Californian more than in any other mountains. The weather was exceedingly hot, and the man took off his cap and wiped his streaming brow as he looked at the travellers who approached him.

"Ha! you've got water there, I see," cried Tom Collins, leaping off his horse, seizing a cup which stood on the ground full of clear water, and draining it eagerly.

"Stop!" cried the man, quickly.

"Why!" inquired Tom, smacking his lips.

The miner took the empty cup and gazed inquiringly into it.

"Humph! you've drunk it, every grain."

"Drop, you mean," suggested Tom, laughing at the man's expression; "of course I have, and why not? There's plenty more of the same tap here."

"Oh, I wouldn't mind the water," replied the man, "if ye had only left the gold-dust behind, but you've finished that too."

"You don't mean it!" gasped Tom, while the questions flashed across his mind—Is gold-dust poison? And if not, is it digestible? "How—how much have I swallowed?"

"Only about two dollars—it don't signify," answered the man, joining in the burst of laughter to which Ned and Tom gave way on this announcement.

"I'm afraid we must owe you the sum, then," said Ned, recovering his composure, "for we have only one dollar left, having been robbed last night; but as we mean to work in this neighbourhood, I dare say you will trust us."

The man agreed to this, and having directed the travellers to the settlement of Weaver Creek, resumed his work, while they proceeded on their way. Tom's digestion did not suffer in consequence of his golden draught, and we may here remark, for the benefit of the curious, that he never afterwards experienced any evil effects from it. We may further add, that he did not forget to discharge the debt.

After half-an-hour's ride they came in sight of a few straggling diggers, from whom they learned that the settlement, or village, or town of Weaver Creek was about two miles further on, and in a quarter of an hour they reached it.

The spot on which it stood was wild and romantic, embosomed among lofty wooded hills, whose sides were indented by many a rich ravine, and seamed by many a brawling water-course. Here digging was, as the miners have it, in full blast. Pick, and shovel, and cradle, and long-tom, and prospecting-pan—all were being plied with the utmost energy and with unwearied perseverance. The whole valley was cut up and converted into a net-work of holes and mud-heaps, and the mountain slopes were covered with the cabins, huts, and canvas tents of the miners.

About the centre of the settlement, which was a very scattered one, stood a log-house or cabin, of somewhat larger dimensions than the generality of those around it. This was the grand hotel, restaurant, and gambling-house of the place, besides being the scene of the trials and executions that occasionally took place. Some such work was going forward when our travellers rode up, for the area in front of the hotel was covered with a large concourse of miners.

"I suspect they are about to try the poor wretches who attacked us last night," said Ned, dismounting at the door of the house.

He had scarcely spoken, when a couple of men ran towards them.

"Here you are, strangers," they cried, "come along and bear witness agin' them blackguards; they're just about to be strung up. We'll look after your horses."

The duty was a disagreeable one, but it could not be avoided, so Ned and Tom suffered themselves to be led into the centre of the ring where the three culprits were standing already pinioned, and with the ropes round their necks. For a short time silence was obtained while Ned stated the circumstances of the robbery, and also the facts regarding the murder of which Black Jim had been previously found guilty. Then there was a general shout of "String 'em up!" "Up wi' the varmints!" and such phrases; but a short respite was granted in consequence of Black Jim expressing a desire to speak with Ned Sinton.

"What have you to say to me?" inquired Ned, in a low tone, as he walked close up to the wretched man, who, although his minutes on earth were numbered, looked as if he were absolutely indifferent to his fate.

"I've only to say," answered the culprit, sternly, "that of all the people I leaves behind me in this world there's but one I wish I hadn't bin bad to, and that's Kate Morgan. You know something of her, though you've never seen her—I know that. Tell her I—no, tell her she'll find the gold I robbed her of at the foot o' the pine-tree behind the tent she's livin' in jist now. An' tell her that her little sister's not dead, though she don't believe me. I took the child to—"

"Come, come, ha' done wi' yer whisperin'," cried several of the bystanders, who were becoming impatient of delay.

"Have patience," said Ned, raising his hand. "The man is telling me something of importance."

"I've done," growled Black Jim, scowling on the crowd with a look of hate; "I wish I hadn't said so much."

The rope was tightened as he spoke, and Ned, turning abruptly on his heel, hurried away with his friend from the spot just as the three robbers were run up and suspended from the branch of the tree, beneath and around which the crowd stood.

Entering the inn, and seating themselves in a retired corner of the crowded gambling-room, Ned and Tom proceeded to discuss their present prospects and future plans in a frame of mind that was by no means enviable. They were several hundreds of miles distant from the scene of their first home at the diggings, without a dollar in their pockets, and only a horse between them. With the exception of the clothes on their backs, and Ned's portfolio of drawing materials, which he always carried slung across his shoulder, they had nothing else in the world. Their first and most urgent necessity was supper, in order to procure which it behoved them to sell Tom's horse. This was easily done, as, on application to the landlord, they were directed to a trader who was on the point of setting out on an expedition to Sacramento city, and who readily purchased the horse for less than half its value.

Being thus put in possession of funds sufficient at least for a few days, they sat down to supper with relieved minds, and afterwards went out to stroll about the settlement, and take a look at the various diggings. The miners here worked chiefly at the bars or sand-banks thrown up in various places by the river which coursed through their valley; but the labour was severe, and the return not sufficient to attract impatient and sanguine miners, although quite remunerative enough to those who wrought with steady perseverance. The district had been well worked, and many of the miners were out prospecting for new fields of labour. A few companies had been formed, and these, by united action and with the aid of long-toms, were well rewarded, but single diggers and pan-washers were beginning to become disheartened.

"Our prospects are not bright," observed Tom, sitting down on a rock close to the hut of a Yankee who was delving busily in a hole hard by.

"True," answered Ned, "in one sense they are not bright, but in another sense they are, for I never yet, in all my travels, beheld so beautiful and bright a prospect of land and water as we have from this spot. Just look at it, Tom; forget your golden dreams for a little, if you can, and look abroad upon the splendid face of nature."

Ned's eye brightened as he spoke, for his love and admiration of the beauties and charms of nature amounted almost to a passion. Tom, also, was a sincere admirer of lovely, and especially of wild, scenery, although he did not express his feelings so enthusiastically.

"Have you got your colours with you?" he inquired.

"I have; and if you have patience enough to sit here for half-an-hour I'll sketch it. If not, take a stroll, and you'll find me here when you return."

"I can admire nature for even longer than that period, but I cannot consent to watch a sketcher of nature even for five minutes, so I'll take a stroll."

In a few minutes Ned, with book on knee and pencil in hand, was busily engaged in transferring the scene to paper, oblivious of gold, and prospects, and everything else, and utterly ignorant of the fact that the Yankee digger, having become curious as to what the stranger could be about, had quitted his hole, and now stood behind him quietly looking over his shoulder.

The sketch was a very beautiful one, for, in addition to the varied character of the scenery and the noble background of the Sierra Nevada, which here presented some of its wildest and most fantastic outlines, the half-ruined hut of the Yankee, with the tools and other articles scattered around it, formed a picturesque foreground. We have elsewhere remarked that our hero was a good draughtsman. In particular, he had a fine eye for colour, and always, when possible, made coloured sketches during his travels in California. On the present occasion, the rich warm glow of sunset was admirably given, and the Yankee stood gazing at the work, transfixed with amazement and delight. Ned first became aware of his proximity by the somewhat startling exclamation, uttered close to his ear—

"Wall, stranger, you air a screamer, that's a fact!"

"I presume you mean that for a compliment," said Ned, looking up with a smile at the tall, wiry, sun-burnt, red-flannel-shirted, straw-hatted creature that leaned on his pick-axe beside him.

"No, I don't; I ain't used to butter nobody. I guess you've bin raised to that sort o' thing?"

"No, I merely practise it as an amateur," answered Ned, resuming his work.

"Now, that is cur'ous," continued the Yankee; "an' I'm kinder sorry to hear't, for if ye was purfessional I'd give ye an order."

Ned almost laughed outright at this remark, but he checked himself as the idea flashed across him that he might perhaps make his pencil useful in present circumstances.

"I'm not professional as yet," he said, gravely; "but I have no objection to become so if art is encouraged in these diggings."

"I guess it will be, if you shew yer work. Now, what'll ye ax for that bit!"

This was a home question, and a poser, for Ned had not the least idea of what sum he ought to ask for his work, and at the same time he had a strong antipathy to that species of haggling, which is usually prefaced by the seller, with the reply, "What'll ye give?" There was no other means, however, of ascertaining the market-value of his sketch, so he put the objectionable question.

"I'll give ye twenty dollars, slick off."

"Very good," replied Ned, "it shall be yours in ten minutes."

"An' I say, stranger," continued the Yankee, while Ned put the finishing touches to his work, "will ye do the inside o' my hut for the same money?"

"I will," replied Ned.

The Yankee paused for a few seconds, and then added—

"I'd like to git myself throwd into the bargain, but I guess ye'll ask more for that."

"No, I won't; I'll do it for the same sum."

"Thank'ee; that's all square. Ye see, I've got a mother in Ohio State, an' she'd give her ears for any scrap of a thing o' me or my new home; an' if ye'll git 'em both fixed off by the day arter to-morrow, I'll send 'em down to Sacramento by Sam Scott, the trader. I'll rig out and fix up the hut to-morrow mornin', so if ye come by breakfast-time I'll be ready."

Ned promised to be there at the appointed hour, as he rose and handed him the sketch, which the man, having paid the stipulated sum, carried away to his hut with evident delight.

"Halloo, I say," cried Ned.

"Wall?" answered the Yankee, stopping with a look of concern, as if he feared the artist had repented of his bargain.

"Mind you tell no one my prices, for, you see, I've not had time to consider about them yet."

"All right; mum's the word," replied the man, vanishing into his little cabin just as Tom Collins returned from his ramble.

"Halloo, Ned, what's that I hear about prices? I hope you're not offering to speculate in half-finished holes, or anything of that sort, eh?"

"Sit down here, my boy, and I'll tell you all about it."

Tom obeyed, and, with a half-surprised and more than half-amused expression, listened to his companion's narration of the scene that had just taken place, and of the plan which he had formed in his mind. This plan was carried out the following day.

By daybreak Ned was up preparing his drawing materials; then he and Tom breakfasted at the table d'hote, after which the latter went to hunt for a suitable log-hut, in which to carry on their joint labours, while the former proceeded to fulfil his engagement. Their night's lodging and breakfast made a terribly large gap in their slender fortune, for prices at the time happened to be enormously high, in consequence of expected supplies failing to arrive at the usual time. The bill at the hotel was ten dollars a day per man; and provisions of all kinds were so dear, that the daily earnings of the miners barely sufficed to find them in the necessaries of life. It therefore behoved our friends to obtain a private dwelling and remunerative work as fast as possible.

On reaching the little log-hut, Ned found the Yankee ready to receive him. He wore a clean new red-flannel shirt, with a blue silk kerchief round the throat; a broad-brimmed straw hat, corduroys, and fisherman's long boots. To judge from his gait, and the self-satisfied expression of his bronzed countenance, he was not a little proud of his personal appearance.

While Ned arranged his paper and colours, and sharpened the point of his pencil, the Yankee kept up a running commentary on men and things in general, rocking himself on a rudely-constructed chair the while, and smoking his pipe.

The hut was very small—not more than twelve feet by eight, and just high enough inside to permit of a six-foot man grazing the beams when he walked erect. But, although small, it was exceedingly comfortable. Its owner was his own architect and builder, being a jack-of-all-trades, and everything about the wooden edifice betokened the hand of a thorough workman, who cared not for appearance, but was sensitively alive to comfort. Comfort was stamped in unmistakeable characters on every article of furniture, and on every atom that entered into the composition of the Yankee's hut. The logs of which it was built were undressed; they were not even barked, but those edges of them that lay together were fitted and bevelled with such nicety that the keenest and most searching blast of north wind failed to discover an entrance, and was driven baffled and shrieking from the walls. The small fire-place and chimney, composed of mud and dry grass, were rude in appearance; but they were substantial, and well calculated for the work they had to perform. The seats, of which there were four—two chairs, a bench, and a stool—were of the plainest wood, and the simplest form; but they were solid as rocks, and no complaining creak, when heavy men sat down on them, betokened bad or broken constitutions. The little table—two feet by sixteen inches—was in all respects worthy of the chairs. At one end of the hut there was a bed-place, big enough for two; it was variously termed a crib, a shelf, a tumble-in, and a bunk. Its owner called it a "snoosery." This was a model of plainness and comfort. It was a mere shell about two and a half feet broad, projecting from the wall, to which it was attached on one side, the other side being supported by two wooden legs a foot high. A plank at the side, and another at the foot, in conjunction with the walls of the cottage, converted the shelf into an oblong box. But the mattress of this rude couch was formed of buffalo-skins, covered with thick, long luxurious hair; above which were spread two large green mackinaw blankets of the thickest description; and the canvas pillow-case was stuffed with the softest down, purchased from the wild-fowl of California with leaden coin, transmitted through the Yankee's unerring rifle.

There was a fishing-rod in one corner, a rifle in another, a cupboard in a third; poles and spears, several unfinished axe-handles, and a small fishing-net lay upon the rafters overhead; while various miscellaneous articles of clothing, and implements for mining hung on pegs from the walls, or lay scattered about everywhere; but in the midst of apparent confusion comfort reigned supreme, for nothing was placed so as to come in one's way; everything was cleverly arranged, so as to lie close and fit in; no article or implement was superfluous; no necessary of a miner's life was wanting; an air of thorough completeness invested the hut and everything about it; and in the midst of all sat the presiding genius of the place, with his long legs comfortably crossed, the tobacco wreaths circling round his lantern jaws, the broad-brimmed straw hat cocked jauntily on one side, his arms akimbo, and his rather languid black eyes gazing at Ned Sinton with an expression of comfortable self-satisfaction and assurance that was quite comforting to behold.

"Wall, mister, if you're ready, I guess ye'd better fire away."

"One second more and I shall commence," replied Ned; "I beg pardon, may I ask your name?"

"Jefferson—Abel Jefferson to command," answered the Yankee, relighting the large clay pipe which he had just filled, and stuffing down the glowing tobacco with the end of his little finger as slowly and deliberately as though that member were a salamander. "What's yourn!"

"Edward Sinton. Now, Mr Jefferson, in what position do you intend to sit?"

"Jest as I'm settin' now."

"Then you must sit still, at least for a few minutes at a time, because I cannot sketch you while you keep rocking so."

"No! now that's a pity, for I never sits no other way when I'm to home; an' it would look more nat'ral an' raal like to the old 'ooman if I was drawd rockin'. However, fire away, and sing out when ye want me to stop. Mind ye, put in the whole o' me. None o' yer half-lengths. I never goes in for half-lengths. I always goes the whole length, an' a leetle shave more. See that ye don't forget the mole on the side o' my nose. My poor dear old mother wouldn't believe it was me if the mole warn't there as big as life, with the two hairs in the middle of it. An' I say, mister, mind that I hate flatterers, so don't flatter me no how."

"It wouldn't be easy to do so," thought Ned, as he plied his pencil, but he did not deem it advisable to give expression to his thoughts.

"Now, then, sit still for a moment," said Ned.

The Yankee instantly let the front legs of his chair come to the ground with a bang, and gazed right before him with that intensely-grave, cataleptic stare that is wont to overspread the countenances of men when they are being photographed.

Ned laughed inwardly, and proceeded with his work in silence.

"I guess there's Sam at the door," said Abel Jefferson, blowing a cloud of smoke from his mouth that might have made a small cannon envious.

The door flew open as he spoke, and Sam Scott, the trader, strode into the hut. He was a tall, raw-boned man, with a good-humoured but intensely impudent expression of countenance, and tanned to a rich dark brown by constant exposure to the weather in the prosecution of his arduous calling.

"Halloo! stranger, what air you up to!" inquired Sam, sitting down on the bench behind Ned, and looking over his shoulder.

Ned might perhaps have replied to this question despite its unceremoniousness, had not the Yankee followed it up by spitting over his shoulder into the fire-place. As it was, he kept silence, and went on with his work.

"Why I do declare," continued Sam, "if you ain't photogged here as small as life, mole an' all, like nothin'. I say, stranger, ain't you a Britisher?"

Sam again followed up his question with a shot at the fire-place.

"Yes," answered Ned, somewhat angrily, "and I am so much of a Britisher, that I positively object to your spitting past my ear."

"No, you don't, do you? Now, that is cur'ous. I do believe if you Britishers had your own way, you'd not let us spit at all. What air you better than we, that you hold your heads so high, and give yourselves sich airs! that's what I want to know."

Ned's disgust having subsided, he replied—

"If we do hold our heads high, it is because we are straightforward, and not afraid to look any man in the face. As to giving ourselves airs, you mistake our natural reserve and dislike to obtrude ourselves upon strangers for pride; and in this respect, at least, if in no other, we are better than you—we don't spit all over each other's floors and close past each other's noses."

"Wall, now, stranger, if you choose to be resarved, and we choose to be free-an'-easy, where's the differ? We've a right to have our own customs, and do as we please as well as you, I guess."

"Hear, hear!" cried Abel Jefferson, commencing to rock himself again, and to smoke more violently than ever. "What say ye to that, mister?"

"Only this," answered Ned, as he put the finishing touches to his sketch, "that whereas we claim only the right to do to and with ourselves what we please, you Yankees claim the right to do to and with everybody, else what you please. I have no objection whatever to your spitting, but I do object to your spitting over my shoulder."

"Do you?" said Sam Scott, in a slightly sarcastic tone, "an' suppose I don't stop firin' over your shoulder, what then?"

"I'll make you," replied Ned, waxing indignant at the man's cool impudence.

"How?" inquired Sam.

Ned rose and shook back the flaxen curls from his flushed face, as he replied, "By opening the door and kicking you out of the hut."

He repented of the hasty expression the moment it passed his lips, so he turned to Jefferson and handed him the drawing for inspection. Sam Scott remained seated. Whether he felt that Ned was thoroughly capable of putting his threat in execution or not we cannot tell, but he evinced no feeling of anger as he continued the conversation.

"I guess if you did that, you'd have to fight me, and you'd find me pretty smart with the bowie-knife an' the revolver, either in the dark or in daylight."

Sam here referred to the custom prevalent among the Yankees in some parts of the United States of duelling with bowie-knives or with pistols in a darkened room.

"And suppose," answered Ned, with a smile—"suppose that I refused to fight, what then?"

"Why, then, you'd be called a coward all over the diggin's, and you'd have to fight to clear your character."

"And suppose I didn't care a straw for being called a coward, and wouldn't attempt to clear my character?"

"Why, then, I guess, I'd have to kick you in public till you were obligated to fight."

"But suppose still further," continued Ned, assuming the air of a philosopher discussing a profoundly-abstruse point in science—"suppose that, being the stronger man, I should prevent you from kicking me by knocking you down, what then?"

"Why, then, I'd be compelled to snuff you out slick off?"

Sam Scott smiled as he spoke, and touched the handle of his revolver.

"Which means," said Ned, "that you would become a cold-blooded murderer."

"So you Britishers call it."

"And so Judge Lynch would call it, if I am not mistaken, which would insure your being snuffed out too, pretty effectually."

"Wrong, you air, stranger," replied the trader; "Judge Lynch regards affairs of honour in a very different light, I guess. I don't think he'd scrag me for that."

Further investigation of this interesting topic was interrupted by Abel Jefferson, who had been gazing in wrapt admiration at the picture for at least five minutes, pronouncing the work "fuss rate," emphatically.

"It's jest what'll warm up the old 'ooman's heart, like a big fire in a winter day. Won't she screech when she claps her peepers on't, an' go yellin' round among the neighbours, shewin' the pictur' o' 'her boy Abel,' an' his house at the gold diggin's?"

The two friends commented pretty freely on the merits of the work, without the smallest consideration for the feelings of the artist. Fortunately they had nothing but good to say about it. Sam Scott, indeed, objected a little to the sketchy manner in which some of the subordinate accessories were touched in, and remarked that the two large hairs on the mole were almost invisible; but Jefferson persisted in maintaining that the work was "fuss rate," and faultless.

The stipulated sum was paid; and Ned, bidding his new friends good-morning, returned to the inn, for the purpose of discussing dinner and plans with Tom Collins.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

NED'S NEW PROFESSION PAYS ADMIRABLY—HE AND TOM WAX PHILOSOPHICAL—"PAT" COMES FOR A "LANDSCAPE" OF HIMSELF—LYNCH LAW AND THE DOCTORS—NED'S SITTERS—A YANKEE SWELL RECEIVES A GENTLE REBUFF.

The ups and downs, and the outs and ins of life are, as every one is aware, exceedingly curious,—sometimes pleasant, often the reverse, and not infrequently abrupt.

On the day of their arrival at the settlement, Ned and Tom were almost beggars; a dollar or two being all the cash they possessed, besides the gold-dust swallowed by the latter, which being, as Tom remarked, sunk money, was not available for present purposes.

One week later, they were, as Abel Jefferson expressed it, "driving a roaring trade in pictur's," and in the receipt of fifty dollars, or 10 pounds a day! Goods and provisions of all kinds had been suddenly thrown into the settlement by speculators, so that living became comparatively cheap; several new and profitable diggings had been discovered, in consequence of which gold became plentiful; and the result of all was that Edward Sinton, esquire, portrait and landscape painter, had more orders than he could accept, at almost any price he chose to name. Men who every Saturday came into the settlement to throw away their hard-earned gains in the gambling-houses, or to purchase provisions for the campaign of the following week, were delighted to have an opportunity of procuring their portraits, and were willing to pay any sum for them, so that, had our hero been so disposed, he could have fleeced the miners to a considerable extent. But Ned was not so disposed, either by nature or necessity. He fixed what he considered fair remunerative prices for his work, according to the tariff of the diggings, and so arranged it that he made as much per day as he would have realised had he been the fortunate possessor of one of the best "claims" in the neighbourhood.

Tom Collins, meanwhile, went out prospecting, and speedily discovered a spot of ground which, when wrought with the pan, turned him in twenty dollars a day. So that, in the course of a fortnight, our adventurers found themselves comparatively rich men. This was satisfactory, and Ned admitted as much one morning to Tom, as he sat on a three-legged stool in his studio—i.e. a dilapidated log-hut—preparing for a sitter, while the latter was busily engaged in concluding his morning repast of damper, pork, and beans.

"There's no doubt about it, Tom," said he, pegging a sheet of drawing-paper to a flat board, "we are rapidly making our fortunes, my boy; but d'you know, I'm determined to postpone that desirable event, and take to rambling again."

"There you go," said Tom, somewhat testily, as he lit a cigar, and lay down on his bed to enjoy it; "you are never content; I knew it wouldn't last; you're a rolling stone, and will end in being a beggar. Do you really mean to say that you intend to give up a lucrative profession and become a vagrant?—for such you will be, if you take to wandering about the country without any object in view."

"Indeed, I do," answered Ned. "How often am I to tell you that I don't and won't consider the making of money the chief good of this world? Doubtless, it is an uncommonly necessary thing, especially to those who have families to support; but I am firmly convinced that this life was meant to be enjoyed, and I mean to enjoy it accordingly."

"I agree with you, Ned, heartily; but if every one enjoyed life as you propose to do, and took to rambling over the face of the earth, there would be no work done, and nothing could be had for love or money— except what grew spontaneously; and that would be a joyful state of things, wouldn't it?"

Tom Collins, indulging the belief that he had taken up an unassailable position, propelled from his lips a long thin cloud of smoke, and smiled through it at his friend.

"Your style of reasoning is rather wild, to say the least of it," answered Ned, as he rubbed down his colours on the bottom of a broken plate. "In the first place, you assume that I propose to spend all my life in rambling; and, in the second place, you found your argument on the absurd supposition that everybody else must find their sole enjoyment in the same occupation."

"How I wish," sighed Tom Collins, smoking languidly, "that there was no such thing as reasoning. You would be a much more agreeable fellow, Ned, if you didn't argue."

"It takes two to make an argument," remarked Ned. "Well, but couldn't you converse without arguing?"

"Certainly, if you would never contradict what I say, nor make an incorrect statement, nor draw a wrong conclusion, nor object to being contradicted when I think you are in the wrong."

Tom sighed deeply, and drew comfort from his cigar. In a few minutes he resumed,—"Well, but what do you mean by enjoying life?"

Ned Sinton pondered the question a few seconds, and then replied—

"I mean this:—the way to enjoy life is to do all the good you can, by working just enough to support yourself and your family, if you have one; to assist in spreading the gospel, and to enable you to help a friend in need; and to alleviate the condition of the poor, the sick, and the destitute. To work for more than this is to be greedy; to work for less is to be reprehensibly lazy. This amount of work being done, men ought to mingle with their fellow-creatures, and wander abroad as much as may be among the beautiful works of their Creator."

"A very pretty theory, doubtless," replied Tom; "but, pray, in what manner will your proposed ramble advance the interests of religion, or enable you to do the extra ordinary amount of good you speak of?"

"There you go again, Tom; you ask me the abstract question, 'What do you mean by enjoying life?' and when I reply, you object to the answer as not being applicable to the present case. Of course, it is not. I did not intend it to be. The good I mean to do in my present ramble is chiefly, if not solely, to my own body and mind—"

"Stop, my dear fellow," interrupted Tom, "don't become energetic! I accept your answer to the general question; but how many people, think you, can afford to put your theory in practice?"

"Very, very few," replied Ned, earnestly; "but that does not affect the truth of my theory. Men will toil night and day to accumulate gold, until their bodies and souls are incapable of enjoying the good things which gold can purchase, and they are infatuated enough to plume themselves on this account, as being diligent men of business; while others, alas! are compelled thus to toil in order to procure the bare necessaries of life; but these melancholy facts do not prove the principle of 'grind-and-toil' to be a right one; much less do they constitute a reason for my refusing to enjoy life in the right way when I have the power."

Tom made no reply, but the vigorous puffs from his cigar seemed to indicate that he pondered these things deeply. A few minutes afterwards, Ned's expected sitter entered. He was a tall burly Irishman, with a red-flannel shirt, open at the neck, a pair of huge long boots, and a wide-awake.

"The top o' the mornin' to yees," said the man, pulling off his hat as he entered.

"Good-morning, friend," said Ned, as Tom Collins rose, shouldered his pick and shovel, and left the hut. "You are punctual, and deserve credit for so good a quality. Pray, sit down."

"Faix, then, I don't know what a 'quality' is, but av it's a good thing I've no objection," replied the man, taking a seat on the edge of the bed which Tom had just vacated. "I wos wantin' to ax ye, sir, av ye could put in me pick and shovel in the lan'scape."

"In the landscape, Pat!" exclaimed Ned, addressing his visitor by the generic name of the species; "I thought you wanted a portrait."

"Troth, then, I don't know which it is ye call it; but I wants a pictur' o' meself all over, from the top o' me hat to the sole o' me boots. Isn't that a lan'scape?"

"No, it's a portrait."

"Then it's a porthraite I wants; an' if ye'll put in the pick and shovel, I'll give ye two dollars a pace for them."

"I'll put them in, Pat, for nothing," replied Ned, smiling, as he commenced his sketch. "I suppose you intend to send this to some fair one in old Ireland?"

Pat did not reply at once. "Sure," said he, slowly, "I niver thought of her in that way before, but maybe she was fair wance, though she's been a'most as black as bog-oak for half-a-cintury. It's for me grandmother I want it."

"Your grandmother! that's curious, now; the last man I painted meant to send the likeness to his mother."