REGINALD HARLAND: INCIDENTS IN A GOLD HUNTER'S LIFE. OUR III. UR mules were stolen. This fact meant that we should either have to remain where we were, or else abandon our heavy luggage-a serious consideration. "There's no use in crying over it," said the Doctor, "gone our animals are, and we must make the best of it. By Jove, our locker is not particularly well supplied though. How are we going to live?" "We can't live here," I answered lugubriously; "that's plain enough to be seen. Our best plan, I think, would be to strike off to the north-west, where some of the miners said they were going. Very likely we shall come across the fellows with our mules, for in all probability they have gone in that direction likewise." "If you're set upon that plan," said the Doctor, "why all right, but I don't like the idea of it. Let us shoulder our portables and go another way, instead of attempting to follow the thieves to the North Fork. They're a parcel of scamps-let them go. I vote we do a little prospecting on our own account to the southward, where nobody has thought of going. If we strike upon a rich placer, we can return, buy animals and provisions at the first town, and go back and work by our selves." To this I assented, and we accordingly set off due north about ten o'clock, journeying over a high table land, almost destitute of trees and covered with chaparral, through which, however, we made our way pretty rapidly. To tell the truth, we were heartily glad bubbled a little spring, and thinking the place suitable for a night's encampment, set to work and kindled a fire, and soon had a cup of tea ready to wash down our supper of dried meat and biscuit. Then we piled more wood on the fire and sat down to the frugal repast as cheerfully as if we had been in the heart of civilization. Yet, as the fire leaped up in a bright flame, reflecting the weird and solemn ranks of pondrous tree-trunks until they were lost in the dark heart of the forest, a feeling indescribably lonely came over us. What unknown dangers might lurk in the gloomy fastnesses we knew not, but none the less our fears were real enough for a time. However, nothing disturbed us during the night, and early in the morning we started off, over a difficult road, farther to the south. The country was heavily timbered generally, though in places it was very broken and mountainous. During the day we passed many small streams, but none gave any indications of being rich in gold, and we kept Late in the afternoon we came to one which appeared to be an insuperable obstacle to our progress, as the cañon through which it ran was very deep and precipitous. on. We stood on the edge of a sheer descent of one thousand feet or more, cut through the solid rock. The perpendicular wall offered no means of descent; only a few lichens grew here and there from crevices. Half way down was a narrow ledge of rocks, but it could not help us, for it would be impossible to get down to it, even if the remainder of the distance were easier. Far of the change, for the toil of the preced below the ledge, in the dusk, flowed the months had been long and severe-too severe for me, as I was wholly unused to physical toil, and I welcomed the respite with pleasure. The Doctor was hardier, and seemed little affected by the difficult work. Towards evening we left the table land behind us, and entered a broken country covered with a noble forest of pine and red-wood. As it grew dark, we descended into a slight hollow, through the middle of which little stream, rippling over its pebbly bed on its way to the distant San Joaquin. "It seems we are done for in this direction," remarked the Doctor lugubriously, as he crept to the edge of the gulf and peered over into its depths; "it would need a parachute to take us down to the bottom of that hole. It might almost be the doorway to the infernal regions, if that little river down there, with its pleasant chattering, didn't take away the notion." "We can do nothing now until morning," I answered," for it is nearly dark already; then we can examine the precipice at our leisure, and perhaps we may find a path down somewhere." We passed the night anxiously like the preceding, minus the tea, for we had no water, and as soon as it was daylight began the search for a path down the steep sides of the cañon. We travelled some distance up-stream without finding much change in the precipitous cliff. A dark and sombre forest lined the edge of the chasm as far as the eye could reach, some trees obtaining a foothold even a few feet over the edge, where they must have obtained their substance of life from the elements of the atmosphere, for their roots had no soil from whence to derive nourishment unless solid granite be capable of imparting it. The opposite side was fringed with forest likewise, only the trees crowded farther down the steep. After skirting the edge for perhaps a mile, we came to a spot where we judged it might be practicable to get down. Here the cliff shelved slightly, and there appeared a trace for some distance down, of what might have been a zigzag path in some bygone time. We resolved to make the attempt, though it seemed a hazardous undertaking, rather than run the risk of being obliged to go thirty or forty miles down the cañon before finding a likelier place. Most of the rivers thereabouts have their sources high in the Sierra, from the melting of the snows, and running down the slope to the west, at length pour their clear, ice-cold waters into the fertile San Joaquin valley. Many of these have in the course of ages cut deep beds for themselves through the hard granite, forming long cañons which wind for miles down the slope, and are almost wholly impassable owing to the depth and precipitousness of the walls. The spot we had chosen, although not quite so sheer as the rest of the cañon wall, was still very dangerous. So smooth were the rocks over which the path led, that a single slip, a false step, or a tumble would have been fatal; for once in motion down that inclined plane there was not a single impediment to stop the fearful slide straight to the bottom. The Doctor started first, jesting about the use of such fearful cracks in good old mother earth's bosom, and I followed soon after, picking my way very care fully along the remnants of the old pathway. We made slow but steady progress, stopping at intervals to rest, until we had got probably half way, when we found slighter traces of the path and less of foothold. Sometimes I could almost feel my feet slipping down the side of the polished surface faster than was at all pleasant, yet still we kept on. The Doctor seemed, however almost as sure of himself as when we had first started. We were gradually leaving the daylight of the upper world behind us, and a strange weird feeling crept over me as cold gusts of wind came down the cañon, and fluttered my garments and hair. The babbling stream below, whose music began to be plainly audible, was the most comforting sound we could hear in the gloom, for it told us we should not have much further to go. We went on toiling painfully over the slippery surface, in imminent danger of our lives, until the Doctor came to a dead halt, with a sharp exclamation, and looked around most pathetically. "What's wrong?" I inquired, striving hard to retain a perpendicular position. "We can't go down any farther," he said ; "the path comes to an abrupt end, and the remainder of the distance-about thirty or thirty five feet I should say--is almost sheer. There's no help for it, we must go back.” Here was a cruel dilemma. We were then nearly a thousand feet from the upper surface, and about thirty only from the bottom, and yet unable to proceed farther. However, it was useless to waste time in deliberation ; if it was impossible to descend we should have to return, if indeed it were practicable. It did not take long to show us that if the descent thus far had been arduous, the ascent would be a thousand times more difficult. I turned and endeavoured to take an upward step, and in the act almost lost my footing. Cold drops of perspiration stood upon my forehead when the danger was over, and I then realized how hopeless a task it would be to retrace our steps to the top of the frowning cliff which towered far above us. Rendered almost desperate by our critical condition, I was about to make another attempt upward, when I was petrified by hearing a heavy fall, an exclamation, and a clatter as if a kitchen range had tumbled upon the rocks-the Doctor was gone. attempting to turn as I had done, but less fortunately, his foot had slipped, he had tumbled In upon the slippery surface and slid to the bottom with fearful speed, the pack he had upon his shoulders producing the clattering sound as he went. Before I had time to comprehend what had happened I felt my own feet to be yielding again, and before I could recover myself I too was down, and on the same rapid journey the Doctor had taken before me. I IV. acter of the place into which we had so undesignedly fallen But the scrutiny failed to bring much comfort. As nearly as I could tell from where I sat, the spot we had chosen for the descent was the only accessible one in the cañon; the whole of the opposite wall within view was nearly vertical; a hundred yards below, the cañon turned abruptly to the left, and at the angle thus formed was so extremely narrow that the stream filled the entire space between the walls and became a rushing torrent; upward both walls became vertical and increased in height very perceptibly. We were in a trap, there could be no doubt about it. When this became clear there suddenly flashed across my vision an imaginary but very probable scene in the years to come, when some exploring party should light upon this cañon, and stumbling over the whitened bones of our remains, almost so to speak, in the bowels of the earth, they would carefully gather them together, bear them swiftly out of the gloomy, dismal place where they had been found, to one of the great relic repositories of the nation, ALIGHTED upon my feet, very fortunately, on a strip of gravel which ran along the margin of the tumultuous little stream, and beyond being somewhat shaken and stunned, I was little the worse for the mishap. I had fallen a little distance from the Doctor, and as soon as I recovered myself I proceeded to where he was lying, a horrid fear gathering around my heart as I observed how still and white he looked. He was lying prone upon his face he had evidently pitched forward after he struck the bottom-where sallow-visaged savants would speedily with an ugly gash, from which blood was oozing, cut in his forehead. He was quite unconscious, and only for a slight fluttering around his heart I might have thought him dead. Raising him in my arms I carried him to the edge of the stream, where I bathed and bandaged his cut temple, and then attempted, by the usual method, to bring him back to consciousness. I laboured for a long time without any result-so long that my heart sank within me for fear he was past all help. But at length my efforts proved successful, and I was overjoyed to see him slowly open his eyes. His recovery, however, was slower than I was prepared to see. He lay motionless, his head resting upon my knee hour after hour, until the afternoon was far advanced; his eyes were open, though he saw nothing, his lips moved slightly at long intervals, but I could catch no articulate sounds from them. I had sat thus since the accident, not daring to move, fearful lest the slightest disturbance might forever extinguish the slight flickerings of life there remained to him. As the sun moved over towards the west and threw his rays against the top of the opposite wall, lighting up for a few moments the sombre granite, I was enabled to examine the char affix labels to them, assigning my poor friend and myself as belonging to some far distant geological epoch which had been buried ages before the dawn of history. This likely fate was not very cheering under the circumstances, though probably the precarious condition of my companion did more towards influencing the depressed and anxious feeling in my mind which afterwards succeeded. It was nearly dark down in those depths ere the Doctor showed signs of re-animation. At last he moved slightly, and spoke a word or two, inquiring what had happened? I asked him if he was in much pain? He answered by slowly moving his arm and pointing to his right side with a grimace which was very expressive. What was to be done? The Doctor could not be moved-even if I succeeded in finding a path leading to the upper air-for many days. Our provisions were very low and would not last above a day or two, and we should be in imminent danger of starving if our stay were prolonged. I clearly saw there was no hope for us, unless we could attract the attention of some wandering miner who might be passing along the margin of the cañon above. Yet I imagined there would be little probability of that, as we were in an almost unknown region to which the miners had not penetrated, as far as I could tell. Raising the Doctor again in my arms, as tenderly as I could, though with all my care the movement seemed to give him infinite pain, I bore him to a little alcove which had been scooped out from the side of the wall, evidently by the action of water, and laid him down, covering his body with my serape to protect him from the dampness and chill air, and then left him for a few moments to gather some drift-wood which I had perceived deposited along the edge of the water, as I had resolved to kindle a fire to dispel the gloom and impart some warmth to our chilled limbs. Before I was half through with the task I heard the Doctor's voice over the sounds of the waters, calling me. Dropping quickly the wood I had collected, I hurried to his side, under the impression that he had missed me and was wondering where I had gone. Bending over him, I inquired if he wanted me? Not heeding in the least, rolling impatiently to and fro, he continued at short intervals to call in a low, mournful cadence, which, in the impenetrable gloom of the alcove, sounded inexpressibly sad. I knew at once the injuries he had received had affected his brain. Abandoning now the idea of the fire, I sank down by the side of my poor friend, taking his burning hands within my own, trying as best I could to quiet his ravings, which were violent at times, and praying that the hours might fly quickly until morning. I felt sad and helpless; I would willingly have risked my own life to have afforded him relief, but what relief could I bring? What sacrifice could I make? Penned up a thousand feet below the surface, miles from human aid, I was utterly and absolutely helpless. Indeed had San Francisco been within half a mile of the cañon's brink it could have made little difference, for without wings nothing human could rise out of that abyss to the world above. Yet I felt dissatisfied and ill at ease to enact so inconsiderable a part as I was obliged to do. During that vigil in the lonely cañon a revelation was made to me-a revelation so unexpected and strange as to cause me almost to doubt its actual occurrence and attribute it to some vagary of my own mind under the influence of approaching illness rather than to veritable reality. Yet the events of its disclosure are too deeply graven upon my memory for me to entertain a doubt about its having taken place, though the very character of it might well cause me to question the evidence of my senses. For some hours the Doctor had talked incessantly, though not intelligibly as a rule, often jumbling words of the most opposite meanings together so that no sense could be made of them whatever; at other times he had intermingled some episode of our camp life with other scenes of which I knew nothing, making a curious medley. At length, however, it suddenly occurred to me that his disjointed sentences were approaching a coherency as strange as it was inexplicable. | In order to give you a complete understanding of what the nature of this was, I shall be obliged to revert to an incident which took place many years ago in Bristol, some time before I came to this country. My father had but two children, myself and my brother Henry, who was some eight years my junior and as wild a lad as could be found, though withal generous and goodnatured. Our mother having died shortly after Henry's birth, we were sent to an aunt who resided at Glastonbury, to be taken care of, and the homestead at Bristol was given up. Our father visited us once a month, though rarely staying above a day or so, owing to the pressing requirements of his business in Bristol. Our aunt being an easygoing, good-hearted soul, with far more affection than brains, allowed us to do pretty much as we pleased, and, I suppose, thoroughly spoiled us, for when our father again married, and we were recalled home, one of us was eternally in some scrape or another. Henry, being younger and of a livelier disposition than myself, was the more frequent delinquent. One day, Henry, by some foolishness or other, brought upon himself from our father a severe reproof which he thought was undeserved, and he consequently retorted in a sufficiently rash and inconsiderate tone, I fear, whereupon he was instantly ejected from the house, and told never to show his face there again. Henry, being a proud, high-spirited boy, did go, and thenceforward never showed his face within the precincts of home. A few weeks after, we heard he had taken passage for New York in a vessel from Liverpool, and a year afterwards a letter came from that city, penned by a stranger, telling that my some lady, I thought, for whose favours my brother had met with an untoward death-brother and the Doctor were rivals-hence had been shot at a brawl in a saloon. Soon after Henry's departure my stepmother died without issue, and my father soon followed her, after the receipt of the news respecting Henry, and I thought I was left alone in the world without kith or kin, as my aunt was then dead too. the eagerness to have a pick at him? But stay! might not my brother and the Doctor be one and the same individual? If so, he must have been addressing himself in the third person. Still the inference had good grounds. I thought this, however, too good to be true. To have made a mistake would have been terrible. So minutely and truthfully did the Doctor detail the part which Henry had taken in this domestic drama, that I could scarcely believe my ears, and was petrified with astonishment. From whom had he heard this? Not from me, for I had not breathed it to living soul. Surely not from Henry himself, for he was not a likely one to tell of his disgrace. Then from whom? I was lost in wonder and could not conjecture farther—it was an enigma beyond my powers to solve. The Doctor had obtained the history from some source or another, and had related it in his delirium, that was an indisputable fact, and one that staggered me. However, a few moments after, the injured man wandered off-there could be no doubt about it. The to another theme, which appeared to be, revelation bewildered me-Henry alive and although somewhat confused, a reminiscence in my arms, when I had for years mourned of some bygone painful period of his life. over his imaginary remains, mouldering in He pictured at first an angry sea, whose high, the silence and gloom of the grave. Could storm-crested waves rose on every side to the | it be true? Was I really awake? Was horizon; then came the terrors of a wreck it only a glorious dream, fated to vanish, -the insane rush for the boats, the tumul- by and by, forever into the chill and darktuous crowding and shouting while the boats ness of the terrible cañon? In my great were being manned and loaded with their joy I scarcely knew whether it was or not. terror-stricken freight; then the tossing in the over-laden boat with the breakers dashing over it; then a long pause; then again, in a softened, pitiful tone, he called a woman's name called it over and over again with a pathos that drew the tears from my eyes. Then another pause and some uneasy turning before taking a fresh start, which began in an entirely different tone--a sort of self-congratulatory chuckle. "Who will know. Henry Harland? Ha, ha! Do they think of him at home? I guess not—he was always a wild dog-it was good riddance you knowbut he will go back some day-rich! With Marie and plenty of money. Then they'll wish they hadn't turned him away--poor Marie she must be very lonely," and he came to a halt with almost a sob. What was this? Henry Harland? What reason had the poor wandering wre:ch beside me to laugh and chuckle over my poor brother's disgrace? And who was this Marie? Doubtless All doubt upon the point, was, however, soon swept away by what followed-every word I shall remember all my life, for they are carved on my memory with letters of fire. They were the last my brother had spoken to me before he left England. Turning again, slightly and painfully, the injured man clearly and distinctly articulated the following words: "Reginald, never grieve for me when I am gone, for I shall do better away from home, but do not forget me." These words had been ringing in my ears. for ten years, mournfully enough. Great Heaven! this must be Henry himself When I had recovered from the bewilderment sufficiently to realize what had happened, I cared to hearken to nothing farther. I was filled with one exultant idea aloneHenry was alive and near me, and my heart went out to him, as hearts only can when they welcome back near friends, as from that far off and unknown shore laved by the dark river of death. I lay upon the granite bed beside him, and enfolding him in my arms, breathed a prayer of thankfulness to God for what He had restored. Soon after, poor Henry grew quieter, and did not move or speak for a long time. During this interval, I lay thinking over the disclosure, and planning in a feverish sort of way many schemes to scale the cañon's walls, all of which I doubt not would have proved futile upon trial. I could not conceal from myself the painful fact that there was little chance of any other |