Mattress or covering we had none. As Fred and I lay side by side, squeezed together in a trough scarcely big enough for one, we heard two fellows by the door of the shed talking us over. They thought no doubt that we were fast asleep, they themselves were slightly fuddled. We nudged each other and pricked up our ears, for we had already canvassed the question of security, surrounded as we were by ruffians who looked quite ready to dispose of babes in the wood. They discussed our 'portable property' which was nil; one decided, while the other believed, that we must have money in our pockets. The first remarked that, whether or no, we were unarmed; the other wasn't so sure about that - it wasn't likely we'd come there to be skinned for the asking. Then arose the question of consequences, and it transpired that neither of them had the courage of his rascality. After a bit, both agreed they had better turn in. Tired as we were, we fell asleep. How long we had slumbered I know not, but all of a sudden I was seized by the beard, and was conscious of a report which in my dreams I took for a pistol-shot. I found myself on the ground amid the wrecks of the trestle.
Its joints had given way under the extra weight, and Fred's first impulse had been to clutch at my throat.
On the way back to San Francisco we stayed for a couple of nights at Sacramento. It was a miserable place, with nothing but a few temporary buildings except those of the Spanish settlers. In the course of a walk round the town I noticed a crowd collected under a large elm-tree in the horse-market.
On inquiry I was informed that a man had been lynched on one of its boughs the night before last. A piece of the rope was still hanging from the tree. When I got back to the 'hotel'
- a place not much better than the shed at Yuba Forks - I found a newspaper with an account of the affair. Drawing a chair up to the stove, I was deep in the story, when a huge rowdy-looking fellow in digger-costume interrupted me with:
'Say, stranger, let's have a look at that paper, will ye?'
'When I've done with it,' said I, and continued reading. He lent over the back of my chair, put one hand on my shoulder, and with the other raised the paper so that he could read.
'Caint see rightly. Ah, reckon you're readen 'baout Jim, ain't yer?'
'Who's Jim?'
'Him as they sus-spended yesterday mornin'. Jim was a purticler friend o' mine, and I help'd to hang him.'
'A friendly act! What was he hanged for?'
'When did you come to Sacramenty City?'
'Day before yesterday.'
'Wal, I'll tell yer haow't was then. Yer see, Jim was a Britisher, he come from a place they call Botany Bay, which belongs to Victoria, but ain't 'xactly in the Old Country. I judge, when he first come to Californy, 'baout six months back, he warn't acquainted none with any boys hereaway, so he took to diggin' by hisself. It was up to Cigar Bar whar he dug, and I chanst to be around there too, that's haow we got to know one another. Jim hadn't been here not a fortnight 'fore one of the boys lost 300 dollars as he'd made a cache of. Somehow suspicions fell on Jim. More'n one of us thought he'd been a diggin' for bags instead of for dust; and the man as lost the money swore he'd hev a turn with him; so Jim took my advice not to go foolin' around, an' sloped.'
'Well,' said I, as my friend stopped to adjust his tobacco plug, 'he wasn't hanged for that?'
''Tain't likely! Till last week nobody know'd whar he'd gone to. When he come to Sacramenty this time, he come with a pile, an' no mistake. All day and all night he used to play at faro an' a heap o' other games. Nobody couldn't tell how he made his money hold out, nor whar he got it from; but sartin sure the crowd reckoned as haow Jim was considerable of a loafer. One day a blacksmith as lives up Broad Street, said he found out the way he done it, and ast me to come with him and show up Jim for cheatin'. Naow, whether it was as Jim suspicioned the blacksmith I cain't say, but he didn't cheat, and lost his money in consequence. This riled him bad, so wantin' to get quit of the blacksmith he began a quarrel. The blacksmith was a quick-tempered man, and after some language struck Jim in the mouth. Jim jumps up, and whippin' out his revolver, shoots the t'other man dead on the spot. I was the first to lay hold on him, but ef it hadn't 'a' been for me they'd 'a' torn him to pieces.
'"Send for Judge Parker," says some.
'"Let's try him here," says others.
'"I don't want to be tried at all," says Jim. "You all know bloody well as I shot the man. And I knows bloody well as I'll hev to swing for it. Gi' me till daylight, and I'll die like a man."
'But we wasn't going to hang him without a proper trial; and as the trial lasted two hours, it - '
'Two hours! What did you want two hours for?'
'There was some as wanted to lynch him, and some as wanted him tried by the reg'lar judges of the Crim'nal Court. One of the best speakers said lynch-law was no law at all, and no innocent man's life was safe with it. So there was a lot of speakin', you bet. By the time it was over it was just daylight, and the majority voted as he should die at onc't.
So they took him to the horse-market, and stood him on a table under the big elm. I kep' by his side, and when he was getting on the table he ast me to lend him my revolver to shoot the foreman of the jury. When I wouldn't, he ast me to tie the knot so as it wouldn't slip. "It ain't no account, Jim," says I, "to talk like that. You're bound to die; and ef they didn't hang yer I'd shoot yer myself."
'"Well then," says he, "gi' me hold of the rope, and I'll show you how little I keer for death." He snatches the cord out o' my hands, pulls hisself out o' reach o' the crowd, and sat cross-legged on the bough. Half a dozen shooters was raised to fetch him down, but he tied a noose in the rope, put it round his neck, slipped it puty tight, and stood up on the bough and made 'em a speech. What he mostly said was as he hated 'em all. He cussed the man he shot, then he cussed the world, then he cussed hisself, and with a terr'ble oath he jumped off the bough, and swung back'ards and for'ards with his neck broke.'
'An Englishman,' I reflected aloud.
He nodded. 'You're a Britisher, I reckon, ain't yer?'
'Yes; why?'
'Wal, you've a puty strong accent.'
'Think so?'
'Wal, I could jest tie a knot in it.'
This is a vulgar and repulsive story. But it is not fiction; and any picture of Californian life in 1850, without some such faithful touch of its local colour, would be inadequate and misleading.
