At the end of the three days we reached the edge of the snow on the opposite side of the mountains, and there being a beautiful camping ground and the first night out of the snow for some time, the luxury of it was fully appreciated by all hands.
On a pine tree here I again saw signs of my old friend, Jim Beckwith, for there was written: "Twenty miles to Beckwith's Hotel." So you see that even in that faraway country, and at that early day, even the pioneer had learned the uses of out-door advertising.
The next morning we took an early start and traveled hard all day, anticipating with much pleasure that at night we should enjoy all the luxuries of the season at Beckwith's Hotel. And we did, to the extent that this region and the markets of San Francisco could afford.
After supper Col. Elliott and all his officers, both commissioned and non-commissioned, came to Jim's house, where, after a social chat and having cracked a few jokes, which latter was really a part of the business connected with this life, Col. Elliott pulled off his overcoat, laid it and his hat on a bed, stepped up near the table and said:
"Mr. Beckwith, I wish to say a few words to your friend, Mr. Drannan, in behalf of myself and the other officers present." Jim told him to go ahead, which he did, telling how faithful I had been and what valuable services I had rendered both to him and the emigrants. He went on and made quite a lengthy speech, in conclusion of which he said: "Mr. Drannan, as a slight token of our appreciation of your services while with us, I now present to you this pair of glasses," whereupon he handed me a fine pair of field glasses which he took from his overcoat pocket, "and here are two navy revolvers that Capt. Mills and Lieut. Harding wish to present to you as a token of their friendship."
This took me wholly by surprise, as I had not expected anything of the kind, and I was so dumbfounded that all I could say was to thank them for the presents, the thought never having entered my head that my services had been so highly appreciated by the officers of those four companies.
Col. Elliott said that in case he should go out on the plains the following summer, which in all probability he would, he wanted me to go with him without fail. I promised him that I would, provided I was in the country when he started out.
After Col. Elliott had closed his remarks and taken his seat, Jim Beckwith arose and made quite a speech in his plain, rude language, addressing his remarks principally to Col. Elliott, in which he said: "Colonel, I would not have recommended this boy to you so highly if I had not been with him long enough to know that when he starts in to do a thing he goes at it for all there is in him, and, as I told you, he has been with Kit Carson ever since he was a boy, and I knowed that if he didn't have the everlasting grit in him, Kit Carson wouldn't have kept him around so long. I am very glad indeed, Colonel, that he has filled the bill, and now the Injun fightin' is all over for this season and 'twill be some time before we all meet again, if we ever do. I have nothing of value to present to you, but such as I have is as free as the water in the brook."
At this he produced a gallon jug of whiskey, set it on the table, gave us some glasses and told us all to help ourselves. This wound up the evening's exercises, and after each had tipped the glass about three times we broke up the lodge and each went on his way rejoicing.
I stayed at Jim Beckwith's for about two weeks, and his carpenters having the houses completed, we saddled up four horses and took them to Hangtown. It was a distance of twenty miles to Hangtown, which at that time was one of the loveliest mining towns in California. There were between four and five thousand inhabitants in and around the place. During the day it appeared dead, as there was scarcely a person to be seen on the streets; but at night it would be full of miners, who, it seemed, came to town for no other purpose than to spend the money they had earned during the day.
This winter passed off, apparently, very slowly, being the most lonesome winter I had put in since I struck the mountains.
Along about the middle of February our groceries were running short and Jim went to Hangtown for supplies. On his return he brought me a letter from Col. Elliott, asking me to come to San Francisco at once.
I asked him what he thought of it, and he told me by all means to go.
I told him I would have to stop in San Francisco and buy me a suit of clothes before going out to the fort to see Col. Elliott. He thought this was useless, saying: "Your buckskin suit that Kit Carson gave you is just what you want for a trip like that."
I thought that if I wore such a suit in civilization the people would make light of me, and I hated the idea of being the laughing stock for other people.
Jim said: "It is Col. Elliott you are going to see, and he would rather have you come that way than any other."
I took my suit down and looked at it, and it was a fine one of the kind. I had never worn it since Uncle Kit's wedding, so it was practically new. I decided to wear it, and the next morning I started for San Francisco, Jim accompanying me to Hangtown to take the horses back to his ranche.
At Hangtown I took the stage for Sacramento, which, by the way, was the first time I had ever ridden in a stage-coach.
We started from Hangtown at five o'clock in the morning and at twelve o'clock that night the driver drew rein at the American Exchange Hotel in Sacramento. The coach was loaded down to its utmost capacity, there being nine passengers aboard. The roads were very rough at this season of the year—being the latter part of February—and I would rather have ridden on the hurricane deck of the worst bucking mustang in California than in that coach.
This hotel was kept at that time by a man named Lamb.
That night when the proprietor assigned the passengers to their respective rooms he asked us if we wished to take the boat for San Francisco the next morning. I told him that I did, whereupon he asked me if I wanted my breakfast. I told him that I did, saying that I didn't want to go from there to San Francisco without anything to eat. This caused quite a laugh among the bystanders; but I did not see the point, for at that time I did not know that one could get a meal on a steamboat, for I had never been near one.
Just as I stepped on the boat next morning, a man rushed up to me with a "Hello there! how are you?" as he grasped me by the hand. Seeing that I did not recognize him, he said: "I don't believe you know me." I told him that he had one the best of me. He said: "You are the boy scout that was with Capt. Mill last summer, and you rode in my wagon." Then I recognized him. His name was Healey, and at the time was running a restaurant in San Francisco, and he insisted on my going to his place when I got to the city, which invitation I accepted. His establishment was known as the Miners' Restaurant.
Mrs. Healey and her little daughter, eleven years old, knew me as soon as I entered the door, and were apparently as glad to see me as though I had been a relative of the family.
The next morning when I offered to settle my bill they would not take a cent, but requested me while in the city to make my home with them.
That day I went out to the Fort, which was three miles from the city, and on arriving there the first man I met was Lieut. Harding, who at once conducted me to Col. Elliott's quarters.
That afternoon we made the rounds of the Fort, and Col. Elliott, when introducing me, would say: "This is the 'boy scout,' who was out with us last summer, and whom you have heard me speak of so often."
I made my home with Col. Elliott and his wife during my stay at the Fort, which was two weeks.
CHAPTER XIII.
SOMETHING WORSE THAN FIGHTING INDIANS.—DANCE AT COL. ELLIOTT'S.— CONSPICUOUS SUIT OF BUCKSKIN.—I MANAGE TO GET BACK