Digging for Gold 11

Digging for Gold 11

“We are not alarmed,” he said. “That is, not much. Who are you?”

 

“An unhappy wayfarer, who has been wandering for days, almost famished,

through this wilderness.”

 

“Do you live about here?”

 

“No; I am on my way to California.”

 

“Not alone, surely?”

 

“I started with a party, but we were surprised a week since by a party

of Cheyenne Indians, and I alone escaped destruction.”

 

Mrs. Cooper turned pale.

 

“Are the Indians so bloodthirsty, then?”

 

“Some of them, my dear lady, some of them. They took all our supplies,

and I have been living on what I could pick up. Pardon my saying so, but

I am almost famished.”

 

“Our supper is nearly ready,” said Mrs. Cooper hospitably. “You are

welcome to a portion.”

 

“Ah, how kind you are!” ejaculated the stranger, clasping his hands. “I

shall, indeed, be glad to join you.”

 

“What is your name, sir?” asked the blacksmith cautiously.

 

“Dionysius Silverthorn.”

 

“That’s a strange name.”

 

“Yes, but I am not responsible for it. We do not choose our own names.”

 

“And where are you from?”

 

“I came from Illinois.”

 

“Were you in business there?”

 

“Yes. Ahem! I was a teacher, but my health gave way, and when I heard of

the rich discoveries of gold in California, I gathered up, with

difficulty, money enough for the journey and started; but, alas! I did

not anticipate the sad disaster that has befallen me.”

 

Mr. Silverthorn was thin and meager, but when supper was ready he ate

nearly twice as much as any of the little party.

 

“Who is this young man?” he asked, with a glance at Grant.

 

“My name is Grant Colburn.”

 

“You are the image of a boy I lost,” sighed Dionysius. “He was strong

and manly, like you—a very engaging youth.”

 

“Then he couldn’t have looked like you,” was Tom Cooper’s inward

comment.

 

“Did he die of disease?” asked Mrs. Cooper.

 

“Yes; he had the typhoid fever—my poor, poor Otto,” and Mr. Silverthorn

wiped his eyes with a dirty red silk handkerchief. “Have you a father

living, my young friend?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“Then it would be a gratification to me if you would look upon me as a

parent.”

 

Grant was quite overwhelmed by this unexpected suggestion.

 

“Thank you, sir,” he said; “but you are a stranger, and I have a

step-father living.”

 

He said this on the impulse of the moment, as a reason for not acceding

to Mr. Silverthorn’s request, but it occurred to him that it would be

about as difficult to regard Mr. Tarbox with filial feelings as the

newcomer.

 

“Ah, he is indeed fortunate!” sighed Mr. Silverthorn. He had a habit of

sighing. “My friend”—here he addressed himself to the blacksmith—“do you

ever smoke?”

 

“Yes, when I get the chance.”

 

“And have you, perchance, a cigar?”

 

“No; a cigar is too high-toned for me. I have a pipe.”

 

“That will do.”

 

“But I have no tobacco.”

 

“Ah!” Here there was another long-drawn sigh.

 

After supper they sat down around the fire, to rest and chat for a while

before retiring.

 

“I suppose, my friends,” continued Dionysius, “you would be surprised if

I should tell you that I was once wealthy.”

 

“You don’t look like it now,” said Tom Cooper bluntly.

 

“No; indeed I don’t. Yet six years ago I was worth fifty thousand

dollars.”

 

“I shall be glad if I am worth as much six years hence.”

 

“How did you lose it?” asked Jerry Cooper.

 

“Through the knavery of wicked men. I was so honest myself that I

supposed all with whom I had dealings were equally honorable, and I was

deceived. But I am happy to think that when I was rich I contributed to

every good work. I gave a thousand dollars to the church in my town. I

gave five thousand dollars as a fund for a town library. All men spoke

well of me, but when I lost my fortune all turned the cold shoulder, and

I found I had no friends. It is the way of the world.”

 

“If you were a teacher I don’t see where you got so much money,”

remarked Grant curiously.

 

“I didn’t make it by teaching, my young friend. An old uncle died and

left me his money. He had been a miser, and never took any notice of me,

so it was a great surprise to me when his will was read and I was

constituted his sole heir.”

 

“I wish an old uncle would die and leave me fifty thousand dollars,”

said Tom.

 

“Such may be your luck.”

 

“Not much chance of that. I haven’t got but one uncle living, and he’s

as poor as Job after he lost all his flocks and herds.”

 

“I don’t complain of my unhappy condition,” said Dionysius meekly. “I

have been rich and now I am poor, but I am resigned to the Lord’s will.”

 

“He seems to be a very good man,” whispered Mrs. Cooper to Tom.

 

Tom shrugged his shoulders.

 

“I don’t take much stock in him,” he whispered back.

 

“How did you happen to escape when the rest of your party were destroyed

by the Indians?” asked the blacksmith.

 

“The attack was made in the night. I had been unable to sleep, and I got

up and went for a walk in the woods, hoping to become fatigued and

drowsy. I was absent for an hour and a half, as well as I can estimate.

When I returned to the camp, what was my dismay when I saw that my

friends had been surprised, their goods confiscated, and a scene of

violence enacted.”

 

“Were all killed?”

 

“I don’t know, but on the ground, by the dismantled tent, I saw a human

arm which had been lopped from the shoulder.”

 

“Do you know whose it was?” asked Tom.

 

“Yes, it was the arm of a young man about your age, who doubtless had

excited the anger of the Indians by resistance.”

 

Mr. Silverthorn put his red handkerchief to his eyes and sobbed, or

appeared to do so, convulsively.

 

“Excuse these tears,” he said. “They are a tribute to my murdered

friends.”

 

“Did you follow the Indians? Did you try to find out where they had

carried your companions?”

 

“No. It would have been no good. I was single-handed.”

 

“I would have done it!” said Tom resolutely.

 

“I would expect it of you, for you are a brave young man.”

 

“How do you know I am?”

 

“By your looks and manner. I am not. You may despise me, but I am

obliged to confess that I am chicken-hearted. I am afraid I am a coward.

It is not a pleasant confession, but I do not wish to represent myself

other than I am.”

 

“Then I am afraid that you are not the right kind of a man to cross the

plains to California.”

 

“I am not sure but you are right. I sometimes think so myself. But I

hoped to retrieve my fortunes, and in my state of health there seemed no

other way open to me.”

 

“You haven’t had much encouragement yet?”

 

“No, but I feel that I am fortunate in meeting with your friendly party.

And this emboldens me to make a request.”

 

“What is it?” asked the blacksmith.

 

“Will you let me travel with you? I am alone, quite alone. It would make

me happy to be with you. The sight of that boy, who reminds me of my

lost son, would be a daily source of happiness to me.”