Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Digging for Gold: Adventures in California by R. M. Ballantyne (e reading malayalam books .TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Digging for Gold: Adventures in California by R. M. Ballantyne (e reading malayalam books .TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
The crossing of the stream was then effected. On mounting the opposite bank it was found that the Indians had taken up their position, fully armed, on the top of their huts, with an air of quiet resolution that showed they apprehended an attack, and were prepared to defend their homes to the death.
This, however, they were not called upon to do, for the travellers turned off to the right, and pursued their way as if nothing had happened. But two of the Indians had been badly hit, perhaps killed, and the thought of this dwelt much on the minds of Frank and his friend Joe all that day. Another thing that distressed them much was the well-known custom of the natives to take their revenge at the first favourable opportunity. It was a rule among them to take two lives of white men for every redskin killed, and they were known not to be particular as to who the whites might be,—sufficient for them that they were of the offending and hated race. The fact that the innocent might thus suffer for the guilty was to them a matter of perfect indifference.
The route over which the whites travelled that day chanced to be unusually picturesque and beautiful. The path, or “trail,”—for there was scarcely anything worthy the name of path,—wound through a sycamore and white-oak grove that fringed the river, the sloping banks of which were covered with an infinite variety of shrubs and evergreens, bearing flowers and blossoms of most delicate beauty and exquisite fragrance, amidst which tangled festoons of the indigenous vine drooped with pendant bunches of purple grapes. Arbutus shrubs of immense size were seen, and the landscape was in some places interspersed thickly with manzanita rushes, the crimson berries of which are much in favour with the Indians, also with the grizzly bear! Some of the plains they crossed were studded with magnificent oaks, devoid of underwood, such as one is accustomed to see in noblemen’s parks in England.
But all this beauty and luxuriance made comparatively little impression on Frank and Joe, for they could not forget that human life had probably been sacrificed that day—a thought which filled them with sincere regret that it had ever entered into their hearts to go digging for gold.
At last Bigbear Gully was reached, and our travellers—especially those of them who, being new to the work, were all enthusiasm—pressed eagerly forward, anxious to begin without delay.
Bigbear Gully—so named because of a huge grizzly bear that had been shot there at the commencement of digging operations—was a wild and somewhat gloomy but picturesque mountain gorge, the first sight of which, with its lights and shadows, stupendous cliffs and clumps of wood clinging to the hill-sides, called forth a burst of delight and admiration from Frank Allfrey, whose mind at once leaped with loving desire to the brush and the colour-box; but as these implements were at that time packed among the baggage on the mule’s back, and as the love of art was not sufficiently strong in the guide to induce him to permit of a moment’s delay in the journey, our hero was fain to content himself with visions of future indulgence in his favourite study.
The “diggings,” which they first got sight of in the afternoon of a fine and sunny but cool day, were at the mouth of a deep gorge at the lower end of the gully, having an abrupt mountain acclivity about eight hundred feet high on one side, and on the other a plain bounded by mountains. Here numbers of tents of all sizes and various shapes were pitched on the slopes and near the banks of the river that brawled down the centre of the little valley.
No sooner had the travellers entered the camp than the diggers left their work and flocked round them to ask the news, and, more particularly, to ascertain what provisions had been brought to the valley,—for the necessaries of life at that time were getting scarce, and the party from which Frank and his companions had separated, strange to say, had not arrived.
Great anxiety was manifested by the diggers on hearing of this separation, because on the safe and speedy arrival of that party they depended almost for their existence, and deep as well as loud were the expressions of disappointment and discontent when they were told that, if all had gone well, they should have been at the gully some days before.
Soon, however, the diggers had exhausted their queries and returned to their work, leaving the new arrivals to look after their own affairs. This they proceeded to do promptly.
“Now, friends,” said Jeffson, “our journeying together has come to an end, and it remains for you to settle whether you shall keep together and work in company, or separate. As for me, my business compels me to leave you. Yonder white tent, which you see about half a mile up the river, belongs to me and my partner. It is the great economico-universal store of Jeffson and Company, which supplies diggers liberally on the most moderate terms, giving credit as long as it seems advisable to do so. When Jeffson is absent, Company takes charge of the concern, and it is my opinion that Company will be kind o’ glad to-night to see the head of the firm come back safe and sound with fresh supplies. You see, gentlemen, I feel it sort of incumbent on me to make you a farewell speech as a fellow-traveller, because I mean to become a host for to-night, and ask you to come up to the store and partake of our hospitality. I am quite sure that you will acquit me of the unworthy motive of wishing to attract you as customers, when I tell you that I am already certain of your custom, seeing that there is no other store in the gully, and I guess you won’t be inclined to go down to Sacramento for supplies for some time to come.”
There was a general laugh at this, followed by a hearty expression of thanks from all the party, who forthwith adjourned to the store, where they found “Company” (who was an Irishman named Quin) barely able to keep his legs, in consequence of a violent attack of dysentery which had reduced him to a mere shadow. The poor man could scarcely refrain from shedding tears of joy at the sight of his partner, who, to do him justice, was almost as much affected by sorrow at the miserable appearance presented by his friend.
“Sure it’s dead I am intirely—all but,” said Quin, as he wrung Jeffson’s hand again and again; “if ye’d bin a day later it’s my belaif I’d have gone under the sod.”
“Well, you do look like it, Quin,” said Jeffson, stepping back to take a more critical view of him. “What on airth pulled all the flesh off yer bones in this fashion?”
“Sickness, no less. Faix, there’s more than me is in the same fix. Jim Dander, down at the cross creek, has got so thin that it’s of no manner o’ use looking at him sideways, he’s not quite visible till he turns his flat front to ye. And Foxey is all but gone; and there’s many a man besides as is on the road to the grave, if not there already. Sure, the doctor’s the only man that makes money now, though he kills more than he cures. The baste called to try his hand on mysilf, but I flung my big boots at his head, an’ saw no more of him.”
“That’s a bad account of things,” said Jeffson; “however, here I am back again with fresh supplies, so cheer up, man, and we’ll weather the storm yet. I’ve brought some fellow-travellers, you see, and hope you will receive them hospitably.”
“That must not be,” said Frank Allfrey, advancing, “it would be unfair to put your friend to unnecessary trouble considering the state of weakness to which—”
“Waikness, is it?” exclaimed Quin, seizing Frank’s hand and shaking it; “well, now, it’s little I thought I’d iver live to be called waik! Howsever, it’s too thrue, but me moral strength is wonderful, so you’re heartily welcome, if ye can slaip on a plank floor an’ ait salt-pork an’ paise. There, now, don’t be botherin’ a sick man wid yer assurances. Just make yerselves at home, gintlemen, an’ the head o’ the firm will git yer supper ready.”
Saying this, the poor man, who was quite worn out with excitement and the exertion of welcoming his partner, flung himself on his couch with a deep sigh. As Jeffson also pressed his friends to remain, they made no further objection.
While supper was being prepared, Frank and Joe went out to look at the diggers.
“Now,” said the former as they sauntered along the bank of the river, “the question that you and I must settle at once is, are we two to work by ourselves, or are we to join with our late friends, and work in company?”
“Jine ’em, say I,” replied Joe. “I’m fond of Meyer, and I like the Scotchman too, though he is rather fond of argification; besides, it strikes me that from what we have heard of diggers’ ways, we shall be the better of being a strong party.”
“Four men don’t form a very strong party, Joe; however, I agree with you. It would be well that we four should stick together. So, that’s settled, and now we shall go and ask yonder fellow in the red shirt and big boots something about our prospects.”
The scene in the midst of which they now found themselves was curious, interesting, and suggestive. For two miles along its course the banks of the river were studded with tents, and on each side of it were diggers, working at short distances apart, or congregated together, according to the richness of the deposits. About twenty feet was the space generally allowed at that time to a washing machine. Most of the diggers worked close to the banks of the stream, others partially diverted its course to get at its bed, which was considered the richest soil. At one place a company of eighty men had banded together for the purpose of cutting a fresh channel for the river—a proceeding which afterwards resulted in a fierce and fatal affray with the men who worked below them. Elsewhere on the sides of the mountains and in “gulches” formed by torrents, men toiled singly and in twos or threes, with picks, shovels, washing-pans, and cradles. All were very busy, but all were not equally hopeful, for, while some had been successful in finding the precious metal, others had failed, and were very desponding.
“Have you had good fortune to-day?” asked Frank, stopping at the edge of the hole in which the miner with the red shirt toiled.
“Not very good,” replied the man, whose voice betokened him an Englishman.
He was an immensely powerful, good-looking fellow, and paused in his work to reply to Frank’s question with a hearty air.
“Have you to dig very deep?” inquired Frank.
“Not very,” he replied; “the depth varies in different parts of the diggings. Here it is seldom necessary to go deeper than four feet. Indeed, a white rock usually lays about
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