On leaving San Francisco, Guinane had declared his intention of going to the Stanislaus river; and his acquaintances, left behind in that city, had been directed to write to him at the latter place.

One Saturday morning, he borrowed a mule from one of the neighbouring miners, to ride over to the post-office for his letters.

The miner owning the mule, was just going to his work; and pointed out the animal to Guinane. It was grazing on the hill-side, about half a mile distant from our tents. In addition to pointing it out, the owner described it to be a brown mule, with rat tail, and hog mane.

He then brought the saddle and bridle out of his tent; and, placing them at Dick’s disposal, went off to his work.

Dick proceeded towards the hill, caught and saddled the mule, and, bidding me good-day, rode off on his journey.

I was expecting him back that evening; but he did not return. I felt no concern on account of his remaining absent all that night. The next day was Sunday; and knowing that he would not be wanted to do any work on the claim, he might, for some purpose that did not concern me, have chosen to stay all night in the town.

Sunday evening came, without Guinane; and, fearing that some accident might have befallen him, I resolved to start next morning for the post-office, should he not return before that time.

The next morning came, without bringing back the absentee; and I set out in search of him.

After going about five miles, I met him returning; and, to my surprise, I saw that he was afoot! I was still more surprised as he drew near, and I obtained a close view of his face and features. Never in my life had I seen such a change in the person of any individual, in so short a time. He seemed at least ten years older, than when he left me at the diggings two days before.

His face was pale and haggard; and there was a wild fiendish expression in his eyes, that was fearful to behold. I could not have believed the eyes of Richard Guinane capable of such an expression. His clothing was torn to rags, bedaubed with dirt, and spotted with dry blood. In short, his whole appearance was that of a man who had been badly abused.

“What has happened?” I asked, mechanically – as soon as my surprise at his appearance permitted me to speak.

“I can’t tell now,” said he, speaking with much difficulty. “I must have water.”

I turned back; and we walked on towards our tents, in which direction we had not far to go, before arriving at a coffee-shop. There he drank some water, with a glass of brandy; and then, ordering a breakfast, he went out to have a wash in the river – an operation of which I had never seen a human being in greater need.

He ate his breakfast in haste – scarce speaking a word until he had finished. Then, starting suddenly from his seat, he hurried out of the house; and moved on along the road towards the place where our tents were pitched.

“Come on!” cried he. “I cannot stop to talk. I’ve work to do. I want revenge. Look here!”

He stopped till I came up – when, lifting the long dark hair from the sides of his head, he permitted me to see that he had no ears!

“Will you aid me in obtaining revenge?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered, “with my body and soul!”

“I knew you would!” he exclaimed. “Come on! we have no time to lose.”

As we walked homeward, I learnt from him the particulars of the terrible misfortune that had befallen him.

On the Saturday morning, after starting off for the town, he had got about a mile beyond the place where I had met him, when he was overtaken by a party of four Mexicans.

Before he was well aware that they had any intention to molest him, a lazo was thrown over his shoulders; and he was dragged to the ground – where his arms were instantly pinioned.

By signs, he was made to understand: that his captors claimed the mule, upon which he had been riding.

Guinane could speak but few words of Spanish; and therefore could not make the Mexicans understand, how the mule came into his possession.

After holding a consultation amongst themselves, they took his revolver from him; and, whilst three of them held him, the fourth cut off both of his ears! They then mounted their horses, and rode away – taking with them the mule Guinane had borrowed from the miner.

After going about three hundred yards, they halted, took off the saddle and bridle – which they did not claim to own – threw them on the ground, as also Guinane’s revolver; and then continued their course.

Nothing can be said to justify these men for what they had done; but probably they could have alleged some excuse for their conduct.

They undoubtedly believed that Guinane had stolen the mule; and they knew that if one of their own countrymen had been caught in a similar act, he would have been fortunate to have escaped with his life. They saw no reason why an American should not be punished for a misdeed – as well as a Mexican.

Guinane pursued them at the top of his speed, insane with grief, and burning with indignation.

They soon rode out of his sight; but he continued on after them – until he fell exhausted to the earth. He must have lain for some hours in a state of insensibility, partly caused by loss of blood – partly by the fatigue that had followed the wild raging of his passions.

It was night when he recovered his senses; and in his endeavours to reach home, he had wandered among the hills, in every direction but the right one.

I have said that he recovered his senses. The expression is hardly correct. He only awoke to a consciousness that he still existed – a horrible consciousness of the inhuman treatment he had been submitted to. His most sane thought was that of a burning thirst for vengeance; but so intense had been this desire, that it defeated its own object, rendering him unconscious of everything else, and to such a degree, that he had only discovered the right road to our camp a few minutes before I had met with him.

“The truth is,” said he, as he finished telling me his story, “I returned to the place where I lost my ears, with the insane hope that I might meet the Mexicans. After having a look at the place, I recovered my senses once more, enough to direct me towards the only object for which I now care to live and that is, revenge. I’m not in so much haste for it now, as I was an hour ago. There’s plenty of time. I’m young, and will find them sometime. Come on! Come on! How slow you walk!”

We were then going at a pace that might be called running.

On reaching our tents, we learnt that Guinane had actually taken the wrong mule! The miner from whom he had borrowed it, had not thought it necessary to describe its brands. Not supposing there was another mule in the neighbourhood, in any way resembling his own, he had not imagined there could be any mistake.

From some diggers, we learnt that the Mexicans we wished to find, had encamped for the night – near the place where Guinane had caught the mule; and it was not strange they had accused him of having stolen it. On recovering the animal, in the manner described, they had returned to their camp, and shortly afterwards had resumed their journey. By making some inquiries, we found that they had gone southward.

As they had no mining tools along with them, we came to the conclusion, that they were on their way home – into some of the northern provinces of Mexico. If so, we might easily overtake them, before they could pass out of California.

We lost no time in making preparations for the pursuit – the most important part of which was the providing ourselves with good horses. In due time, this difficulty was got over, although my bag of gold dust was much lighter, after the purchase of the horses had been completed.

By daybreak of the next morning, we were ready for the road. Guinane kept urging me to expedition – in pursuit of those who had awakened within his soul a thirst for vengeance, that blood alone could assuage!

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Three.
A Curious Case of Self-Murder

The pursuit conducted us southward; and, at almost every place where we made inquiry, we heard of four mounted Mexicans – who could be no other than the men we were desirous of overtaking.

For the first two days, we were told, in answer to our inquiries, that they were about forty-eight hours in advance of us.

On the third morning, we again got word of them at a rancho, where they had stopped to bait their horses. The owner of the rancho gave a description of a mule which they were leading along with them – a brown mule, with rat tail and hog mane. It could be no other than the one, which had cost Dick so dearly.

After feeding their animals, the Mexicans had made no further halt; but had taken the road again – as if pressed for time. So fancied the ranchero.

They must have been under some apprehension of being pursued – else they would not have travelled in such hot haste. It was about forty hours – the man said – since they had taken their departure from the rancho. We were gaining upon them; but so slowly, that Guinane was all the while chafing with impatience.

He seldom spoke. When he did, it was to urge me to greater speed. I had much trouble in holding him sufficiently in check to prevent our horses from being killed with over riding.

From information obtained at the rancho, we could now tell that the Mexicans were making for the sea coast, instead of directing their march towards the interior. If they intended going overland to the city of Mexico, they were taking a very indirect road towards their destination.

At each place where we got word of them – on the fourth day of our pursuit – we learnt that the distance between us was rapidly lessening.

Near the evening of this day, we stopped at another rancho, to refresh our horses – now nearly done up. The Mexicans had stopped at the same place, six hours before. On leaving it, they had taken the road to San Luis Obispo. We should arrive there about noon on the following day.

“To-morrow,” said Guinane, as he lay down to snatch a short repose, while our horses were feeding, “to-morrow I shall have revenge or death! My prayer is, God let me live until to-morrow!”

Again we were in the saddle – urging our horses along the road to San Luis Obispo.

We reached that place at the hour of noon. Another disappointment for my companion!

San Louis is a seaport. A small vessel had departed that morning for Mazatlan, and the Mexicans were aboard of her!

On arriving at the port, they had hastily disposed of their animals; and taken passage on the vessel – which chanced to be on the eve of sailing. We were just one hour too late!

To think of following them further would have been worse than madness – which is folly. By the time we could reach Mazatlan, they might be hundreds of miles off – in the interior of Mexico.

Never have I witnessed such despondency, as was exhibited by Guinane at that moment.

So long as there had appeared a chance of overtaking the men, who had injured him, he had been sustained by the hope of revenge; but on our relinquishing the pursuit, the recollection of the many misfortunes that had darkened his life, added to this new chagrin, came palpably before his mind, suggesting thoughts of suicide!

“’Twas folly to pursue them at all,” said he. “I should have known that the chance of overtaking them would have been a stroke of fortune too good to be mine. Fate has never yet been so kind to me, as to grant a favour I so much desired; and I was a fool to expect it. Shall I die?”

I used every means in my power to direct his thoughts to some other subject; but he seemed not to heed, either what I said or did.

Suddenly arousing himself from a long reverie, he emphatically exclaimed:

“No! I will war with fate, till God calls me hence! All the curses of fortune shall not make me surrender. All the powers of Hell shall not subdue me. I will live, and conquer them all!”

His spirit, after a terrible struggle, had triumphed; and now rose in opposition to fate itself.

We rode back to the Stanislaus. It was a dreary journey; and I was glad when it was over. There had been an excitement in the chase, but none in returning from it. Even the horses seemed to participate in the cloudy change that had come over our thoughts.

After arriving at the Stanislaus, I went to see Stormy Jack. I found him hard at work, and doing well in his claim – which was likely to afford him employment for several weeks longer. I was pleased to hear of his success; and strongly urged him to abstain from drink.

“I don’t intend to drink any more,” said he, “leastwise, as long as I’m on the diggings; and sartinly not when I have any gold about me. That last spree, when I came so near losin’ it, has larnt me manners.”

Guinane accompanied me on this visit to Stormy; and on our return, we passed through the town. My partner had left his name at the office of “Reynold’s Express,” for the purpose of having his letters forwarded from the General Post-office in San Francisco. As we passed the Express Office, he called in, to see if any had arrived for him.

A letter was handed to him – for which he paid in postage and express charges, one dollar and fifty cents!

After getting the letter, we stepped into a tavern, where he commenced reading it.

While thus occupied, I noticed that he seemed strangely agitated.

“We are friends,” said he, turning short towards me. “I have told you some of my troubles of the past. Read this letter, and make yourself acquainted with some more. It is from Amanda Milne.”

He held the letter before my eyes, and I read: —

“I know your upright and manly spirit will see no impropriety in my writing to you. I have done you injustice; and in doing so, have wronged myself, as much as you. I have just learnt that your character has been injured by a fault of mine – by my not having acknowledged giving you the purse. Forgive me, Richard! for I love you, and have loved you, ever since I was a child.” – Guinane crumpled the letter between his fingers, and I was able to read no more. I saw him suddenly raise his hands towards the place where once were his ears – at the same time that I heard him muttering the words, “Too late! too late!” Another movement followed this – quick and suspicious. I looked to ascertain its meaning. A revolver was in his hand – its muzzle touching his temples!

I rushed forward; but to use his own last words, I was “too late.”

There were three distinct sounds; a snap, the report of a pistol, and the concussion of a body falling upon the floor.

I stooped to raise him up. It was too late. He was dead!

Can the reader comprehend the thought that dictated this act of self-destruction? If not, I must leave him in ignorance.

In preparing the remains of my comrade for the grave, a silk purse, containing a piece of paper, was found concealed beneath his clothing. There was writing upon the paper, in a female hand. It was as follows: —

“Dick,

“I do not believe the stories people tell of you; and think you are too good to do anything wrong I am sorry you have gone away. Good bye.

“Amanda.”

It was, no doubt, the note he had received from Amanda, after his first parting with her – enclosed in the letter of his mother, sent after him to New York. It was replaced in the purse, and both were buried along with his body.

Poor Amanda! She may never learn his sad fate – unless chance may direct her to the reading of this narrative.

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Four.
An Impatient Man

I have not much fault to find with this world – although the people in it do some strange things, and often act in a manner that puzzles me to comprehend. The man of whom Guinane had borrowed the mule, was himself an original character. After my comrade’s death, I became slightly acquainted with this individual; and was much amused, though also a little pained, at what I thought to be his eccentric behaviour.

Original types of mankind are, perhaps, more frequently met with on gold fields than elsewhere. Men without a certain spirit and character of their own, are less likely to adopt a life of so many perils and hardships, as gold diggers must needs encounter.

But there are also men who can appear eccentric – even amongst gold diggers; and the individual to whom I have alluded was one of these. His name was Foster.

The mail from the Atlantic States was due in San Francisco every fortnight; and, of course, at about the same interval of time, in the different diggings to which the letters were forwarded – the Stanislaus among the rest. Three days, before its arrival, at the last mentioned place, Foster used to leave his work, and go to the post-office – which stood at a considerable distance from his claim – for letters. He would return to his tent, as a matter of course, disappointed; but this did not prevent him from going again to the post-office, about six hours after.

“Has the mail arrived yet?” he would inquire of the post-master.

“No. I told you a few hours ago, that I did not expect it in less than three days.”

“Yes, I know; but the mail is uncertain. It is possible for it to arrive two or three days earlier than usual; and I want my letters as soon as they get in.”

“No doubt,” the post-master would say, “no doubt you do; and I advise you to call again in about three days.”

“Thank you; I will do so,” Foster would answer; and six hours after he would call again!

“As soon as the mail arrives,” the post-master would then tell him, “I will send your letters to you. It will be less trouble for me to do that, than to be so often unnecessarily annoyed.”

“No, no!” Foster would earnestly exclaim, “pray don’t trust them into the hands of any one. They might be lost. It is no trouble for me to call.”

“I can easily believe that,” the post-master would rejoin. “If it was any trouble, you would not come so often. I must, therefore, adopt some plan to save me from this annoyance. As soon as the mail arrives I will put up a notice outside the window here, and that will save you the trouble of coming in, and me of being bothered with your questions. Whenever you come in front of the house, and do not see that notice, you may be sure that the mail has not arrived. You understand?”

“Yes, thank you; but I don’t wish to give any unnecessary trouble. I dare say the mail will be here by the time I come again. Good-day!”

Six hours after, Foster would be at the post-office again!

“Any news of the mail?” he would ask.

“Are you working a good claim?” inquired the post-master once – in answer to this perpetual dunning.

“Yes,” replied Foster. “Tolerably good.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“Why?”

“Because if you were not doing well, you might be willing to go into some other business – the post-office for instance – and buy me out. If you were here yourself, you would have your letters as soon as they arrived. Since getting them seems to be your principal business, you should be on the spot to attend to it. Such an arrangement would relieve me, from a world of annoyance. You worry me, more than all the rest of the several hundred people who come here for letters. I can’t stand it much longer. You will drive me mad. I shall commit suicide. I don’t wish to be uncivil in a public capacity; but I can’t help expressing a wish that you would go to Hell, and never let me see your face again.”

Foster’s chagrin, at not getting his letters, would be so great, that the post-master’s peculiar wish would pass unheeded; and the letter-seeker would only go away to return again, a few hours after.

Usually about the tenth time he called, the mail would be in; and in the general scramble of the delivery, Foster would get two letters– never more, and never less.

One evening, near mail time, he was, as usual on a visit to the post-office after his letters; and his mate – whose name was Farrell – having got weary of sitting alone in his tent, came over to mine – to pass an hour or two in miner’s gossip. He told me, that Foster had been for his letters seven times during the two days that had passed!

“He will have to go about three times more,” said Farrell, “and then he will probably get them. The mail should be in this evening.”

“Forster appears to think very much of his family?” I remarked to his partner. “I never saw a person so impatient for news from home.”

“He is certainly very anxious to hear from home,” said Farrell, “but not exactly for the reasons you may be supposing. Foster and I are from the same neighbourhood, and have known each other for many years. We came to California together; and I am well acquainted with all the circumstances under which he is acting. Now, if you hailed from anywhere near that part of the world to which we belong, I should say nothing about him; but as you don’t, and it’s not likely you’ll ever drift in that direction, there can be no more harm in my telling you what I know, than there would be in talking about some one of whom we have read, and who has been dead a thousand years ago.”

“Foster married when he was very young – his wife being a woman about ten years older than himself. She was worse than old – she was plain; and besides had but very little sense. Add to this, that she was always ill; and ill-tempered, and you have a woman, whom you will admit could not be very agreeable for a wife.

“He had not been married over a week, before he discovered that he had been making a fool of himself.

“You have noticed his anxiety about the letters. Well – I shall explain it. By every mail, he expects news of the death of his wife; and it is his impatience to hear that which makes him so uneasy about the arrival of the post. If he should get a letter to-night containing the news of her death, he would be the happiest man in California; and I dare say would start for home, within an hour after receiving it.”

I expressed some surprise, that one man should intrust another with such a disgraceful secret; and plainly proclaimed my disapprobation of Foster’s conduct.

“You are wrong, my friend,” rejoined his partner. “For my part, I admire his frank and manly spirit. What is the use of one’s pretending that he wishes his wife to live, if he really desires her to die? I hate a hypocrite, or a person who will, in any way, deceive another. I don’t suppose that Foster can help disliking his wife – any more than he can keep from sleeping. The feeling may be resisted for a while; but it will conquer in the end. Foster is a man, in whom I cannot be deceived; and I respect him for the plain straightforward manner, in which he avows his sentiments.”

“This indecent impatience to hear of the death of his wife,” said I, “cannot wholly arise from hatred. There is probably some other woman with whom he is anxious to be united?”

“That is very, very likely,” answered Farrell, “and the second letter he always receives along with the one from his wife may serve as an affirmative answer to your conjecture. Well! he is one of the most open-hearted honourable fellows I ever met; and I don’t care how soon his hopes are realised. Because a man has been foolish a little in his youth, is no reason why he should always be punished for it.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Foster himself – who appeared in a high state of pleasant excitement.

“Come on, Farrell!” cried he, “let us go to the tent, and settle up. It is all over with the old lady; and I start for home by daybreak to-morrow morning.”

Farrell bade me good-night and Foster, who did not expect to see me again, shook hands at parting – bidding me a final goodbye.

There was much in the expression of Foster’s countenance that I did not admire; and, notwithstanding, the apparent openness of his speech, I could not help thinking him a fellow not only without good feeling, but hypocritical, and treacherous.

Farrell purchased his mule, and also his share of the mining tools; and by break of day the next morning, Foster was on his way to San Francisco.

The post-master of Sonora was annoyed by him no more; and Farrell was left to regret the loss of his plain-speaking partner.