River, neither hoping for prospective wealth, nor fearing disappointment, and without a single regret at leaving a wife and family behind him. The finger of his destiny, like the finger of that terrible woman, pointed the way, and he fol- lowed it unquestioningly, and without a single resolution for good or for evil.
Peterson’s career in the Frazer River dig- gings was a counterpart of that at Montezuma. He saw fortunes slip away from him after he had almost laid his hands upon them. He labored with all his strength within a hundred feet of men who were carrying away their thou- sands, and never “struck a color.” To use his own sad commentary, “his luck hadn’t turned worth a cent.” But in this case Peterson was no worse off than thousands of others, who, with high hopes and brilliant expectations, had sought the new diggings, for the Frazer River excitement stands out to-day, in the history of the Pacific Coast, as the most disastrous fever that ever sapped the ambition of a Californian treasure seeker. Peterson, however, had hoped
for nothing, and was not surprised at the reali- zation of his hopes.
In the Cariboo excitement Peterson was one of the first on the ground, to delve, and toil, and struggle, and accomplish nothing—as usual.
Then he drifted hither and thither, like flotsam on the heaving tide; a week in this camp, a month in that, ever toiling, never hoping, and barely obtaining, by his most gigantic efforts, a scant subsistence—charity oftentimes supplying what energy, perseverance, and obstinate per- sistence failed to provide. It was the “grim irony of fate,” and this poor mortal could do no more than fight his hopeless battle, until death should step in and put an end to the struggle.
When the great Washoe excitement broke out, a world was startled. 1: produced an effect second only to that of the first gold discoveries in California. Like the California fever, it res- cued a wilderness from its primitive state, and, while laying the basis for colossal private fort- unes, added another State to the Union. It carried in its train fortune and misfortune, joy and misery, bright hopes and dark despair. Here again Peterson toiled and struggled, never hoping, never despairing. Having reached his leaden mean, he could not hope, and in his dreary philosophy could perceive no use in de- spairing. Invariably failing to accomplish any- thing as a prospector, or independent miner, he sought employment as a teamster, mine hand, or ordinary laborer, and by this means secured sufficient to sustain life.
He had, after a long day’s struggle through the alkali sands of Esmeralda, brought his team of sixteen mules to a corral on the outskirts of
Aurora, at that time the most flourishing camp of south-western Nevada, and after attending to the necessary duties of feeding and stabling his animals, repaired to a hotel for rest and refreshment. While seated in front of the hotel, waiting for the supper-bell to ring, he was accosted by a young man clad in the garb of a mountaineer.
“Hullo, George! On the road again, I see.”
“Yes, I’m on the road again,” answered Peter- son ; “but I reckon you’re mistaken in yer man, stranger. My name’s Peterson— Roger Peter- son.”
The man looked at him a moment, and then burst into a loud laugh.
“Well, that’s purty good, George— Peterson’s good. How many names have you got, any- how, George?”
“But I tell ye my name’s not George,” per- sisted Peterson.
“Oh, no, of course not. Stick to it, George, but don’t think you can throw off that way on your friends—your pals, George—because it won't do; it’s played out.”
“Have it yer own way, my friend. George it is, then; one name’s as good’s another,” an- swered Peterson, with characteristic resigna- tion to this new freak of his old enemy, Fate.
“Now you talk,” replied the mountaineer, throwing himself into a chair beside Peterson. There was a pause in the conversation, during which the stranger drew a pinch of tobacco and a brown paper from his vest pocket, and rolled a cigarette. After he had lighted the little roll, he leaned over to the man whom he had ad- dressed as “George,” and in a low voice in- quired :
“Which of the gang did that little job at Taylor’s last Monday?”
“T don’t understand ye, stranger.”
“Of course ye don’t, George; it’s natural you shouldn’t understand me. You've got your rea- sons for not understanding me, I expect. I'll have to put it a little plainer. Which one of the gang robbed the Carson stage at Taylor’s Station?”
“Robbed the stage!” Peterson uttered the words slowly, and with one of those forlorn glances so common to him.
“Yes, robbed the stage,” repeated the young man; “everybody says it was ‘Chaparral George’s’ gang that did the work, and if you didn’t do the job yourself, you know who did.”
“T never robbed a stage in my life.”
“T know you never did,” answered the stran- ger, chuckling; “but as there’s a heavy reward out for your capture, I’d advise you to keep shady till it blows over. Adios,” and before Peterson could reply the man had sauntered
