6 We Leave for the Mine

Our departure from San Francisco attracted little notice. Parties were leaving every day for the mines, and as we had not sought to make acquaintances during our stay in the town, I imagine that we were not greatly missed. Now and then some one would hail us as we passed, but always we had a ready reply.

“Which way, boys?” called a man who was leaning against a post enjoying the sunshine.

“Off there,” answered Pike, making a wide circular sweep with his hand. His “off there ” indicated any point of the compass a man might choose.

“Must have a fine prospect, you are so secret about it,” retorted the man, good-naturedly.

“Nuff fur the hull uv ‘’Frisco’” replied Pike. “You jist wait thar a’ginst that post till we git back, so we’ll know whar to find you, an’ we’ll give you your share. Fill every pocket you’ve got full uv gold.”

“All right,” called the man. “You’ll find me right here with my Sunday clothes on and a double set of pockets in ’em.”

We had more than one such encounter as this, but they meant nothing. It was merely the easy familiarity of the town. Soon we left the houses behind us, and were out in the open. We meant to skirt the bay for a considerable distance and then we would make a bee line across the country—that is, if the mountains and rivers would let us—for the hidden mine.

The stimulating breezes and the charming and picturesque region through which our route lay soon had their effect upon us and our spirits rose. I am afraid the death of poor Pedro did not weigh as heavily upon us as it should have done. But he had been so lacking in spirit and all the characteristics of a man that somehow we could not regret him greatly. As Pike truly said when he lay dying at our feet the night before, he did not have backbone enough for the California of that day.

We were all on foot, while the mules carrying the baggage and part of our arms trotted along by our side. Pike and I were in front. On this expedition, as on our former one, when we crossed the plains, Pike looked upon me as his lieutenant, and I dropped naturally into that position. Indeed, Pike himself had never been made captain of the party by election, but had become such because of his supreme fitness and with our silent but unanimous consent and approval.

“You’ve got Pedro’s diagram of the mine safe, haven’t you?” I asked of the hunter.

“Yes,” he said, slapping his waist, “it’s right here, next to my hide, an’ the man who gits it away from me will hev to lay me out fust.”

In reality I did not think a great deal of the diagram, as it was so crude. We could follow Pedro’s verbal directions almost as well, but thought it best to keep it in our possession.

“I guess that cut throat, Halftrigger, hez got er copy uv this,” said Pike. “Pity Pedro hadn’t had more backbone. He might be alive now an’ joggin’ er long with us.”

“What do you think of our chances for beating Halftrigger?” I asked.

“Fust rate,” replied Pike. “All the good thar boat could do ’em wuz to git ’em out uv ’Frisco an’ our reach. They kaint foller no river to thet mine. They’ve got to lan’ somewhars purty soon an’ cut across country, same ez we’re doin’. They’ve got jest the same information about the mine that we hev, and it’ll be nip an’ tuck at ween us who gits thar fust.”

“Well do our best, won’t we?” I said.

“You bet we will,” replied Pike, cheerily, “fur we’re boun’ to beat them fellers. You know it’s been said that possession is nine p’ints uv the law. Wa’al, out here in this new and wil’ country it’s ’levin p’ints out uv ten—that is, ef you’re strong ’nuff ter keep possession after you’ve got it. An’ ef we fin’ that mine afore Halftrigger an’ his gang do, I guess we’ll keep possession. They won’t beat us out of it, eh, boys?”

As Pike said this he looked around at us with a smile of satisfaction. We were in fact a stout party, for Henry and I were now men in everything but years, and all of us had been sharpened and toughened in’ the great school of experience. It was Starboard Sam who replied to Pike’s query.

“Not much, Cappen,” he said. “Not with this crew. We won’t let any swab like that Halftrigger cut across our course. If they try to scuttle this craft we’ll give ’em a broadside and blow the daylights out of’em.”

In an excess of high spirits Sam threw his legs across the mule he was leading and, kicking him in the sides with both feet, trotted up to the head of our troop. Sam’s mule was a brindle-colored, mild-eyed animal of uncertain age. He looked as if he had long since lost all interest in this sublunary sphere, and shambled along with his head sunk almost to the ground, as meek and lowly a creature as I had ever seen. Sam had named him Hannibal.

“It’s because there’s no fight in him,” he explained, “an’ I want to help him out a little with a name.”

When Sam on his long-eared Bucephalus had taken the lead, he raised his hat and, describing a magnificent nourish with it, began to sing:

The song ended at “never.” I do not know whether it was due to disapproval of Sam’s vocal effort or to the spirit of general cussedness which is so strong in all mules, but the meek Hannibal stopped abruptly and rose to a neat perpendicular upon his forelegs. With equal abruptness Starboard Sam quitted the back of his mule, described a lofty and beautiful circle in the air and alighted on a bunch of soft’grass some feet in front of the mule.

Hannibal stood stock still, regarding his dismounted master with large, melancholy eyes. The sailor, who was unhurt, returned his gaze with angry interest.

Pike threw his great head back and laughed until the hills echoed with his stentorian guffaw. Everybody shared in his merriment save the unlucky Starboard Sam.

“Ah,” exclaimed the vivacious Bonneau, “zee Yankee sailor ees zee great horseman, but he come kerchunk zees time. He not know how to ride ze long-eared cheval. Behold how a Frenchman manage zee fiery steed. En avant, Napoleon! En avaut!”

With these words, Bouneau leaped on his own mule, which he had named in honor of the great French Emperor, and began to belabor him with a stout stick in an endeavor to urge him to a rapid pace.

Napoleon was surprised, but his presence of mind, like that of the great man for whom he was named, did not desert him. He was equal to the emergency. He took four or five mighty leaps forward, which shook up the little Frenchman so severely that he threw both arms about Napoleon’s neck and embraced him with as much vigor as if he had been a long lost brother.

Then Napoleon reared up on his hind legs and began to whirl around as if he were made to revolve on a pivot. Bonneau’s hat flew off, then his gun followed, and even his pistol was shaken out of his belt. Fortunately the fall did not discharge either.

“Help! Help!” shrieked Bonneau. “He ees shaking me into zee leettle pieces. I cannot hold on much longer. He will keel me! Ah-h-h!”

As he uttered this long “Ah-h-h!” Bonneau’s grip on Napoleon’s neck gave way and he was launched into the air as if he had been fired from a gun. He flew off at a tangent and landed in a bush. He pulled himself out in a moment, sprang to his feet and with great presence of mind exclaimed:

“Ah, that was one great jump I made! Eet save my life! Zee Frenchman always know what to do!”

“A jump!” exclaimed Sam, indignantly. “You mean he slung you. Why, you went like a ball fired out o’ one o’ the old Constitution’s long twenty-four’s.”

“Ah, Monsieur Sam,” said the Frenchman, “eef you say nozzing about my deesaster, I veel say nozzing about yours; ees eet a bargain?”

“Better do it, Sam,” said Henry, trying to smother his laughter, “for Bonneau held on longer than you did. You get the advantage.”

The old sailor’s face smoothed over and he b’urst into a laugh, in which all of us joined. Then he and Bonneau gave their hands on it and the bargain was made, though Pike, Henry and I insisted that it had no reference to us.

Hannibal and Napoleon, those long-suffering creatures stood in the grass as mild and innocent in appearance as two doves, and apparently awaiting the return of their masters, who had left them so abruptly. But Sam and Bonneau were distrustful. They would not mount again, but walked along beside their animals.

“It is safer to lead than to drive two such illustrious personages as Hannibal and Napoleon,” commented Henry.

“You’re a sailor, Sam, an’ you’re a Frenchman, Bonneau,” said Pike, “an’ though you’re promisin’ material, both uv you hev got lots uv things to learn yet, speshully about mules, with which animals I hev been associated all my life, seein’ ez my father put me to ploughin’ with a mule on his farm in Missoury afore I was ten years old. Mules, gen’lemen, are the most onsartin’ uv all God’s creatures. You may think you may know a mule. You may work with him fur years, an’ he may be ez rig’lar an’ gentle ez a lamb, but some day he’ll open your eyes, ef he don’t break your neck. Put no trust in mules. Mules is all right in thar place, but don’t trust ’em.”

“I veel nevaire do it again,” said Bonneau, “Napoleon, from this day you have lost zee confidence of Pierre Bonneau, of la grande nation.”

This episode was brief. Though we found plenty of time for talking as we trudged along, we made excellent progress. Neither did the intentness of our purpose deprive us of a proper appreciation of the beautiful country that we were now traversing. On one side of us was the silver sheen of water. On the other the country, like a velvet carpet tinged to nature’s colors and sprinkled with trees and flowers, rolled and billowed away. Cutting the horizon line rose the mountains, misty and dim, while the skies that curved above us were the deepest and most vivid blue I ever beheld.

“It’s a poor sort of a man,” said Henry, “who could not feel young and fresh in such a country and under such a sky as this.”

“Even zee leetle Napoleon zere feel eet,” interjected Bonneau. “Zat ees why he throw me so very hard,”

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