An Incident in the Life of a Miner.
By Editor
It was a gloomy afternoon in the middle of the rainy season so peculiar to the climate of California, that myself and two companions came to a halt, after a long and fruitless search after that precious metal which has drawn so many away from their peaceful homes to become wanderers in a far-off country. Mine was only one of the numerous instances of hard fortune which seems to merge into a fatality, and to make abortive every effort towards acquiring a fortune, or even a competency. My companions were young men, brothers, who had left the States with their heads filled with golden dreams, and after two years of unparalleled hardship, found themselves in a frame of mind bordering upon desperation, utterly destitute of money and the common necessaries of life. We had entered a small valley in the morning formed by the range of hills near the North Fork of the American River. It took us the whole of the forenoon to descend the precipitous sides of the mountain, and, exhausted by our exertions, we had thrown ourselves under the outspreading branches of a large oak, which stood near the centre of the small level which formed the basin of what appeared, at some distant period, to have been the reservoir of a small lake. I had lighted my pipe, while my friends were engaged in unpacking such scanty provisions as we had remaining. My thoughts had insensibly wandered away to old associations, and I was half-wondering to myself whether I ever would “strike a pile”—the ultimatum which is ever present to a Californian’s imagination—when I was startled by a shout behind me. I turned quickly, and found the brothers dancing and leaping about in the most extravagant manner. I rushed up to them, and there, in glittering profusion, lay the cause of their sudden joy: they had rolled a large stone over to serve as a seat, and in doing so exposed to view a “pocket” filled with masses and lumps of gold in nearly a pure state. I congratulated them on their discovery, when each claimed it as his own: the lie and the blow passed in quick succession, and before I could utter a word they were in mortal combat, rolling over the sward and shifting their positions with the rapidity of lightning. They were mad: the froth flew from between their closely-shut teeth, and they gave utterance to howls of rage that resembled more the shrieks of demons than of human beings. In an instant one jumped up with a yell of victory, grasping a knife dripping with the blood of his brother: he threw himself flat on the ground, with his face and hands on the treasure. It was with feelings better imagined than described that I witnessed this terrible tragedy: everything had passed so instantaneously that I had no opportunity for interference. As soon as I could collect my scattered senses, I proceeded to raise the injured one up. He was stone dead: the knife must have pierced his heart. I was in the act of laying him down, when a cry reached me that will haunt me to my dying hour. I looked up, and—horror of horrors!—saw the other brother half risen from the earth, and in the act of casting from him a huge rattlesnake which had coiled itself around his neck while he had been hugging to his heart his ill-gotten gold. There was a dark, livid spot upon his cheek, which told the tale, while stamped upon his features, ferocity, rage, fright, and utter despair struggled for the mastery. Above all could be heard the clear ringing rattle of the deadly reptile, as, cast from the hand of its victim, it crawled its slow length away into the surrounding chapparel. I entered that valley a young man: I left it prematurely old. I burried both brothers under the old tree which had been the only witness, besides myself, of their early and violent death. We publish the above for the moral that may be drawn from it, that the love of money is the root of all evil.—Ed.