[Dan De Quille, Lost in the Sierras: The Gold Hunter's Fate, Alta California, October 2, 1877]

 

Lost in the Sierras.

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THE GOLD HUNTER'S FATE.

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[BY DAN DE QUILLE.]

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SCENE I.

            How silent are the Sierras in their topmost hights where the gray peaks stand about in groups, hedging up between them the little platter-like valleys !

            We most go and stand on the border of one of these valleys. Now we feel the silence of the place resting upon us -- are awed by the tall, frowning peaks.

            See ! a gloomy mist in the west has risen up and reddened and almost hidden the afternoon sun.

            What ! in this drear place a lone man and his horse. How tired are both; how slowly drag their steps ! Now they halt. The man, bewildered, lost, turns and looks about him ; the tired beast hangs its head and stands motionless, glad of a moment's rest. Before them, darkly frowning, is a grey-walled canyon. It is deep -- how deep we cannot see, for in the bottom squats gloomy Dark.  Unsmiling as the lost soul, she grimly sits hovering over her brood of terrors, as a hen spreads her wings over her young.

            The lost stand perplexed and irresolute. They know, and only know, that they are lost in the high Sierras. Their knees betray their weariness and their fear.

            How great is the silence here ?  No sound from the lower world can reach this hight. The tall gray peaks stand about like voiceless ghosts. Along the narrow flats and upon the steep, unsafe slopes  are grouped the white bones of lifeless groves of juniper and stunted pine -- they are bleached as stag horns bleach on a plain, or the bones of dead soldiers on a battlefield. Did they die of the great silence ?

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SCENE II.

            Evening is drawing near, but the blackness of her robes is not all her own. The lost man marks this gathering gloom and is uneasy. Winter is near -- he knows the treachery of the season and all the dangers of the first great snow storm.

            Alas ! why did he venture ?  Gold, for which all risk life, tempted him.  His fagged steed moves his ears to and fro uneasily -- turns and snuffs toward the west. There is weight, moisture, in the gloom.  Undecided, the lost man looks about him. Like the sea, the deep silence roars in his ears. Now fragments of clouds, slow moving, approach and creep along the ground close beside him. Dusk rises threatening up from her lair to the near abyss and stands before him. She reaches her shapeless arms about the base of the mountains ; her terrors glide along the low ravines, skulking from bush to bush. Where shall the lost man turn ?

            Hark ! a house dog bays from the step of his master's cabin ! Was that the home like tinkle of a cow bell ? Ah ! no ; these are sounds which belong miles on miles below, more than a day's journey away. Echoing memory for a moment cheated him.  Hist ! What is that which, like the long-drawn sigh of a ghost, breathes through the silence ? How quickly the lost man turns and peers into the gloom behind him ! Pshaw ! ''twas but the voice of the wind, awed to a whisper -- rebuked by the dread presence of Silence. 'Twas but the wind -- he felt it on his cheek --- yet, in that one timid whisper, it said much to him. He understood and shuddered. His horse dropped his head still lower and shook his shaggy sides until the pack on his back clattered again. The poor beast understood what was whispered by the breeze. There was no snow on his back -- not yet -- but the horse knew what was meant by the wind.  The clatter of the pack was not loud -- would not have been at another place -- but the lost man started and looked quickly about him ; he feared that the huge peaks standing around might be startled into letting fall the great rocks lying in their laps.

            At last the lost gold-hunter moves. Driving his weary horse before him, be gazes earnestly at what looks like the black shadow of a cloud -- a small dark spot many miles away. It is a grove of living trees that he sees -- a grove of firs in a mountain gorge far below.

            Rugged are the ways of the wilderness and the feet of the weary find many stumbling places. Weary is the lost man ! weary the beast he urges ! Bruises rebuke his haste, and stubborn shrubs rear their antlered heeds and revenge on his flesh and garments his every display of contempt for them.  

            The wind whispers, more hoarsely and boldly along the rugged ground.  It is yet far to the grove -- to where the fir trees stand silent and dark. Timidly the lost man glances upon the heaped and distorted rocks as he hastens past them. He is foolish to be afraid. There are no faces looking at him over tagged tops -- no faces peeping from their dusky chinks.

            How dark it grows ! Who can now see the tops of the hoary peaks around -- whose eye look into the darkness at their feet ? Soon the gnomes of the mountain halls will be abroad, the ghosts of the dead races walk !

            The lost man puts his hand quickly to his cheek ; he gazes up in fear at the gloom in the sky, urges his horse in a hoarse, hurried voice, for he has just felt the fall of the first snow flake.  His strained eyes have still in their view the dark clump of firs, but it is far, far to their shelter.

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SCENE III.

            Silence no longer reigns. The winds, at first so timid, have come forth in all their strength and now shout victoriously through their dominions. Hark ! are not the ghosts of the dead races at battle with the gnomes ?  No, 'tis but the howl of the wolf, seated at the mouth of his cave !

            Now the snow sits steadily down, and wearily drag on horse and man, heavily lifting their snow-cumbered feet.

            At last -- thank God -- at last the shelter of the grove is gained. The wolf is still laughing, seated on the rock before his den, but the shelter of the fire is good. The snow cannot come near, but it hastens to raise a wall about the trees, the low, outer branches of which almost sweep the ground.

            Grateful is his fire of sticks to the chilled feet of the wanderer. The storm is forgotten while he slumbers. Let gnomes and the ghosts of warriors battle -- let the gray wolf laugh on ! The lost man sleeps and his hungry horse, with his nose in the embers, dreams of the green grass of the lower valleys.

            The red light of the morning sun bums on the snow and the sleeper awakes. Oh !  sun, mock not with your brightness, for the wall of snow is high. Gazing on it, the heart of the lost man stands still. The snow-laden boughs of his trees are weighed down --- they rest upon the encircling drift.

            What a beautiful fairy palace our lost man has ! But he will not look upon or delight in its dazzling walls -- he only sighs and moans and mutters. Whose are the names he speaks? Why does be not be merry and sing and dance in his splendid snow palace? But his hands clasp his knees ; he rocks to and fro. Rising, he approaches and caresses his dumb companion, and the horse lovingly rests his head against his master's cheek.

            'Tis full fifty miles to the valleys, good Dobbin," he says, " and we must be moving."

            Quite up to the breast of the horse is the snow, as the pair resume their journey. Such is a storm of single night in the high Sierras.

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SCENE IV.

            " John " is the name that is on the lips of a mother in a little brown cabin, by a fountain in a dell among the foothills far below. " Papa" is the word the blue-eyed girl by her side is lisping. 'Tis he they are thinking of whose breast is pushing against the snow high up in the glittering mountains. In the little brown cabin a white cloth is spread on the table and dainty dishes smoke upon the hearth.

            Why does he not come home ? Look out, little boy -- look out at the door, and look often child ; Look now, and when Spring comes and the birds sing – look again !   *  *  *  *  * *        

            Taking our way again to the mountains, how like great tents look the clumps of manzanita on the foothills, and higher up, how the young pines are bowed down with snow ! Up, up, we toil, many weary miles, and at last we see, on the side of a great, white mountain, two black, slow-moving specks. What ! have they stopped ? No ; they are moving again – but, not now. They seem moving again but, no -- no. No ; the tired horse can go no further -- cannot be driven. He is stretched in the snow. Our wanderer must make his own path. See ! the snow is against his breast, but he pushes bravely through. Listen ! Was that a moan ? It was a sound from the dumb companion of the lost man -- a sigh -- but now the poor horse can raise his head no more.  He is weak ; he can not follow his waster. And look, the man has turned about ! Now he kneels down by the poor brute, whose head he takes in his lap, and whose neck he encircles in his arms.  Will he stay and die with his horse ?  No. The cabin and the two blue-eyed children !

            In vain the horse now tries to lift his head -- in vain listens for his master's voice ; his master's breast is once more against the snow, and his thoughts are of his cabin home and a mother with her little ones that cling to her clothes.

            Dull is the boom of the masses of snow falling from the tops of the tall pines. A lonely grouse is startled and flies over to an opposite mountain with a whir of wings that echoes far up and down the canyon. And again all is still -- hushed as death ! The dread silence of the Sierras !

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SCENE V.

            Another day has passed and another night. Where now is he that was lost ? Ominous, almost like a wail, is the stillness. See, he lies with his face on his arms -- his breast still against the snow.

            This is sad, for this is " John" and this is " papa." He seems resting, and, perhaps, is thanking of the mother in the far away cabin and the little ones that cling by her clothes.  Ah, thank God ! he rises -- he is breasting the snow.

            Alas ! he has halted and again lies with his head upon his arms, having moved scarce ten paces.  Snow-blind and feeble, he arises and makes another effort to advance, but his head once more sinks upon his arms.

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            The white cloth is again spread on the table, the dainty dishes again smoke on the hearth. Why does he not come?" asks the uneasy mother in the little brown cabin. " Look out little blue-eyed boy, look out the door -- poor mother, keep your dainties warm, and tell your little ones " papa will soon be at home."

            The face of the lost man is still buried in his arms, he utters no sound, he does not move. From the tall pines the snow falls heavily about him, but he is not disturbed -- he is very, very cold, drowsy, and he dreams.

            The young pines are hooded with snow, and snow bends the smaller firs -- yet, above all, the sky is blue and smiling. But the lost man sees none of these ; yet he smiles, for at last he sees the white cloth spread on the table, the dainty dishes on the hearth, the glad mother and his blue-eyed babes -- he is almost home. Look out, little blue-eyed boy, and you, little girl ; but poor mother, look no more to your dainty dishes, for " papa" is now at home.

            Yes, now that we look again -- look at the glazed eyes and rigid limbs -- we see that it is so – he is " at home."

            Cold are the nights on the high Sierras -- cold the blue sky and the bright stars. Under the blue sky and the bright stars lies the stiffened form of the lost gold-hunter -- far up on the side of a great white mountain it lies.

            The gray wolf, perched on his rock, looks down upon two dark specks in the snow and utters his wild, hungry laugh, undecided upon which first to feast, the horse or his dead master.

            How hateful is the sight of this wolf that howls by night, and of the circling ravens that croak by day ! for we can but think of those waiting in the little brown cabin, by the fountain, far down the valley.

            When Spring comes again, the bones of the lost gold-hunter may be found -- but who knows? There -- still circling about -- are those croaking ravens, and there -- with his feet on the edge of his jutting rock, shaggy neck stretched out and eyes looking hungrily down -- still stands that chattering wolf.