Gold Seekers of '49. Edwin L. Sabin

"I've got a little more to do, yet. Then I'll come, too."

      "All right," and away clumped Charley, in his heavy boots. This time he was determined to look in earnest for the long-nosed man. He hoped that he would not find him, but he feared, just the same.

      He did not have far to look. The long-nosed man was standing leaning against one side of the doorway of the salon. Yes, it was he, sure enough! He acted as if he was waiting, for when he saw Charley approaching, to pass, he smiled, and waved genially.

      "Well," he greeted, halting Charley. "So proud of your new clothes that you don't recognize old friends, eh? Come here."

      Charley boldly walked straight to him. The man's tone made him mad.

      "How are you?" answered Charley. "Taking a trip?"

      Mr. Jacobs squinted his eyes and wrinkled his long nose cunningly.

      "Y—yes," he drawled. "Taking a little trip." His breath smelled of liquor. "Suppose you're going to Californy, to look for that gold mine. Thought you'd give me the slip, did you?"

      "No," said Charley. "We didn't think anything about you, especial."

      "Oh, you didn't!" And the long-nosed man spat tobacco juice on the clean deck. "You reckoned on giving me the slip, though. But I've been watching you. Didn't I tell you I was half wild hoss and half alligator? What's to hinder me from going out to Californy, too?"

      "Nothing, I expect," replied Charley, his heart sinking. "Why? Are you?"

      The long-nosed man leered.

      "Maybe I am, and maybe I'm not. You go your trail and I'll go mine, but if they cross, look out. Half of that property belongs to me, remember—and half of that money you're using, too."

      "It doesn't, either," snapped Charley, angry, his spunk up. "And we aren't afraid of you; not a bit. Go on out to California, if you want to, but don't you bother us. And don't you bother my mother, or you'll get in trouble."

      He heard a familiar step, and the voice of his father.

      "Hello! This is the man, is it, after all?"

      "Hello, yourself," retorted Mr. Jacobs, glaring at him. "Maybe you think you own this boat."

      "Not a bit, sir," answered Mr. Adams, good-natured.

      "Maybe you think you can dictate where I travel."

      "No, sir. I expect to look after myself, and not after you."

      "Well said," approved the long-nosed man. "Now will you have a drink?"

      "I never use liquor, sir," returned Mr. Adams—and Charley was proud to hear him say it.

      "'D rather not drink with me, perhaps," sneered the long-nosed man.

      "I see no reason for drinking with you or at all, sir," sharply replied Mr. Adams. "Come on, Charley. We've got better business to tend to."

      "You have, have you?" called the long-nosed man, after them. "Maybe you think I don't know what it is. Maybe you think——" but they paid no more attention to him.

      Still, the meeting was not pleasant, and Charley heartily wished that the "J. Jacobs" had proved to some other Jacobs.

IV

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A FRIEND IN NEED

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      The Robert Burns steadily churned her way down the Mississippi, yellow and swollen with the spring freshets. She stopped at towns and other landings—some of these being plantation landings—to discharge or take on passengers and freight. These stops would have been the more interesting, to Charley, were he not in a hurry. He wanted to be sure and catch the Georgia, for the Isthmus. Supposing the Robert Burns were late into New Orleans; then they might miss the Georgia. Of course, there were other boats—the Falcon and the Isthmus and the Quaker City; but with such crowds setting out for the gold fields, it behooved a fellow to get there as soon as he possibly could.

      More "Forty-niners" boarded the Robert Burns. One in particular took Charley's eye. He came out in a skiff, from a small wood landing, where some steamers, but not the Robert Burns, stopped to load up with fuel. When the Robert Burns whistled and paused, floating idly, and he had clambered in, he proved to be a very tall, gaunt, black-whiskered individual, with a long, muzzle-loading squirrel rifle on his arm. A darky tossed a blanket roll up after him, and rowed away for the shore.

      The man looked like a backwoodsman—and again he looked like a Californian, too, for his clothes were an old blue flannel shirt (with a rolling collar having white stars in the corners), patched buckskin trousers and heavy boots of the regulation style. Charley chanced to be crossing the salon or main cabin when the man was paying for his passage, and there witnessed something exciting that made him dart out and find his father.

      "Dad!" hoarsely whispered Charley. "That was a gold miner who came aboard in a skiff! He was paying his fare with gold dust."

      "Was he? How do you know?"

      "I saw him at the desk, but the clerk wouldn't take any dust, so he had to pay with money. He has a buckskin sack, just like ours. Wish I could talk with him."

      "Maybe he'll talk with you, if you give him the chance. You can try and see. But don't ask him any foolish questions, or seem inquisitive."

      Presently the tall man (he was taller even than Mr. Adams) emerged from the cabin, to stand by the rail, leaning on his rifle and gazing at the shore line. A picturesque figure he made, with his starred shirt-collar rolled back, and his leathery trousers wrinkled down over his boot-tops.

      Charley sidled around him, expectantly; and the man noticed him.

      "You look as if you were going out, too," addressed the man, a twinkle under his bushy brows.

      "Yes, sir," answered Charley. "To California."

      "Anybody with you?"

      "My father." And Charley proudly nodded toward another tall form. "Were you ever there?" he added, hesitantly.

      "I should rather think so. Five years ago, and four years ago; and now I'm making another trip by a new route. The other times I crossed by the land trail."

      "Oh, you must have been with Frémont!" exclaimed Charley.

      The whiskered man nodded.

      "I was. I was with Carson and Frémont in Forty-three—Forty-four, and again in Forty-five—Forty-six."

      "I know about those travels," cried Charley. "I'm reading Colonel Frémont's reports now. I'm just finishing his last one. I guess they're about the best description of California there is. Did you fight in the war?"

      The man smiled.

      "See my shirt?" he queried. "All we Frémont men wore these navy shirts—some of us clear through the campaign. The sloop of war Portsmouth sent us a lot of ship's supplies, when we marched down from the mountains to Sutter's Fort, just before the uprising of the Bear War in June, Forty-six. I saved my shirt, and now I only wear it occasionally. I'm sorter proud of this shirt."

      "I should think you would be," agreed Charley. "Did you mine in California?"

      "Yes, sir. I started in to settle there, after the war, till the gold craze broke out. Ever see any dust?"

      "Some," admitted Charley.

      "There's not much in this sack now," continued the Frémont man, showing it. "But I've filled it many a time."

      "I've