One needn’t pick up a great deal of gold in order to get rich. About a hundred pounds would be right, or as much as one could carry on one’s back; about two bushels would be right.
“How big might the gold clods be?” Arvid asked.
“They are of different weights.”
The gold grew in pieces of all sizes, from about half a pound to twenty-five pounds weight, Robert explained. There were chunks as large as a human head, while others were tiny as dove eggs. There was also a still smaller kind, about the size of hazelnuts, and these lumps were most prevalent and easiest to find. But they were such a nuisance to pick that he did not intend to bother with them; for himself he would choose the larger chunks, then he wouldn’t have to bend his back too often; by picking the twenty-five-pound pieces one could save one’s strength in the gold fields.
Nor would Robert gather such a great fortune that it would be a burden to him. He wanted a medium-sized fortune that would be easy to look after and not bring him eternal damnation; he did not intend to build himself a castle, or buy expensive riding horses, or marry some extravagant woman with a desire for diamonds and pearls. He only wished to gain enough of a fortune to live for the rest of his life without drudgery, or labor, or masters.
Robert wanted to weigh up for himself a hundred pounds of the California gold; then he would return completely satisfied. Perhaps he might even return to Sweden and buy himself a manor house. He had heard of two farm hands from Småland who had dug gold in California and then returned home and bought great estates. They had each brought home a sack of gold, which they had exchanged for Swedish coin. But Robert thought he would be satisfied with a smaller estate, about two hundred acres or so; the larger ones required too much attention and could easily become a burden to their owners. Robert would get himself an overseer; and he would pay his hands well — a thousand daler a year, and they would be let off work at six o’clock, Saturdays at five.
“You are good to them,” said Arvid.
“Having served as farm hand myself I know what they deserve,” said Robert modestly.
“And. . was it your thought to travel alone to California?”
“No. That’s what I wanted to tell you: the two of us should go together.”
There should be two, because the road was so awfully long. And two would find the gold much more easily than one. True enough — gold glittered and shone, but four eyes could see twice as much as two; and two would be safer against robbers and thieves.
“Are you coming with me, Arvid?”
It was the same question Robert had once before asked his friend, one night long ago in a stable room in their homeland. Then it had concerned North America, and so great had been Arvid’s surprise at Robert’s daring and ingenuity that he had been speechless for a long moment. Now the question concerned a journey to the land of gold in North America, and that land also lay so far away that the sun needed extra hours to reach it in the mornings.
Robert repeated his question: “Are you coming with me, Arvid?”
“I want to — that you must know. But I’m in Danjel’s service.”
“He cannot keep you here! Not in America.”
“But I owe my master for the journey here.”
Danjel Andreasson had paid the expense for his servant’s emigration, and Arvid felt it would be dishonest to leave him before he had repaid Danjel through his work. But he too knew full well that no master could keep him longer than he wanted to stay; no servant law was in force here, no sheriff fetched runaway farm hands.
“You can pay Danjel what you owe him when you come back from California!” said Robert. “You can just hand him a chunk of gold.”
Yes, returning from the gold fields Arvid would be so well-to-do that he need never again lift his hand in work, neither with ax, hoe, nor any other tool. He had only to carry his gold to the bank and each month withdraw sufficient interest to pay his expenses; there would be plenty of money to pay Danjel.
Moreover, the two youths had once and for all promised each other to stick together in America.
“I haven’t forgotten that promise,” said Arvid, deeply moved. “I want to follow you, that you must know. But I must talk to Danjel before I shake your hand on it.”
Robert already felt sure he could persuade Arvid to go with him to California.
“You mustn’t whisper a word to anyone! I don’t intend to tell Karl Oskar until the day before I leave!”
He had already figured out the way to take: They would board the Red Wing next time the packet steamer came to Stillwater, then the boat would carry them down the Mississippi to St. Louis, the same way they had traveled last summer. By helping to load wood and wash dishes, they would not have to pay a cent for their transportation on the Red Wing. From St. Louis they could walk dryshod all the way to California, following the great highways that led to the West.
“Isn’t there any — any ocean in between?” Arvid asked with some concern.
Robert assured him there was not; only solid land, mostly dry, sandy stretches where they could walk comfortably to the home of the gold in the New World.
Robert had long been listening to his left ear, its persistent humming and ringing urging him on: Come! Come! A new land far away called him again, and having obtained his friend’s promise of company, he would soon follow the call.
But the winter was to interfere with his plans; the frost grew in intensity, soon the whole St. Croix River was covered with solid ice. The Red Wing’s bell no longer was heard in Stillwater; indeed, no craft would be seen on the river until next spring when the ice had broken up; the inhabitants of the St. Croix Valley were separated from the outside world by the frozen river.
For the rest of the winter Robert was shut up in Minnesota Territory.
— 3—
Early one Sunday morning, Robert picked up his brother’s gun and went into the forest. New-fallen snow, three or four inches deep, covered the ground; it was fine hunting weather. Not far from the cabin he came on the tracks of an elk, and hunting fever seized him. The elk could not be very far away — Karl Oskar had not yet shot an elk — think if he could shoot this big animal and be the first one to bring home all the meat!
The elk tracks led past the Indian-head, and Robert stopped a moment to look up at the cliff. The stone Indian stared back at him with his unchanging, black eye holes. As long as this cliff had existed — for thousands of years — those deep, inscrutable eyes had looked out over the forest; the Indian stood guard for his brown-skinned people, an eternal watchman over the hunting grounds hereabouts. But his green wreath was now withered, the bushes on top of his head had lost their leaves, the wind whipped the naked, dry branches; only above the Indian’s left ear some limbs still carried their leaves — like eagle feathers stuck behind his ear.
Every time Robert looked at the enormous face of this cliff, a strange sensation of uneasiness stole over him; there was something threatening in the stone Indian’s eternal immobility; he felt like a sneaking intruder on the age-old hunting grounds of the savages.
Suddenly he crouched, holding his breath: he had discovered a living Indian close by.
Below the cliff, hardly a gunshot from where he stood, a human figure huddled in the top of a small birch. His face was turned away from Robert, but he could see skinny legs, partly covered by tattered skins which fluttered in the wind. And near his hands Robert could clearly see a bent branch — the Indian’s bow!