6,000 Tons of Gold. Henry Richardson Chamberlain
a very good but very awkward meal by the Scotchman’s bedside. They became quite merry over their respective infirmities. Brent with one arm in a sling was even more helpless than Fraser upon his back but with both hands free. They had a jovial hour over the repast before approaching serious subjects. When the waiter had been finally dismissed, the Scotchman dropped his gay mood.
“I like you, lad,” he remarked suddenly, after looking rather quizzically from under his heavy brows at his companion for some moments. “And because I like you and because I’m certain you’ll stick to a friend through thick and thin, I’m going to ask you to join me in an adventure that may make us both richer than anybody in all this country—or in any other maybe.”
“Have you found a new El Dorado?” asked Brent half banteringly, but a good deal impressed nevertheless by the other’s manner and words.
“Not that exactly, but I know a man who has or who has known about it for years and has never used his knowledge till now. I have some of the products of his secret in that box over there,” answered the Scotchman pointing to the smaller of his trunks on the other side of the room. “I took something like a hundredweight of clean virgin gold to the Bank of England bullion-room a couple of months ago and it was so pure they allowed me weight for weight in new sovereigns for it.”
“And is there much more where that came from?” asked the now thoroughly interested American.
“I solemnly believe, lad, that there are millions more waiting to be carried away,” said the grizzled old man with grim emphasis, half raising himself in his earnestness and watching the effect of his words upon his companion.
Brent stared at the crippled figure before him in half stupefied amazement. There was such a convincing sincerity in the bearing of the old Scotchman that the young man could not receive his astonishing statement with any incredulity. So it was with a full conviction of the other’s truthfulness that he finally found words to say:
“My friend, if you have such wealth within your reach, you should not intrust the secret to a stranger such as I. I am proud of the confidence you show in me, but you must not make me the object of such generosity as you suggest.”
“Well said, my lad, and I know you mean it,” replied the old man warmly, “but I don’t intend to make you a present of this gold. I haven’t it to give you. I don’t even know where it is, and there’s many a difficulty and probably danger before we shall see it. What I propose is that you join me in the enterprise of securing it. I grant I should not have made the offer but for that confounded tumble,” pointing to his plaster leg, “but now I am compelled to seek assistance or to forfeit all chance of ever getting any of the treasure. So I invite you to share with me a rough experience of several weeks, perhaps months, and the much or little that may come of it.”
“That is what I came here hoping for,” responded Brent heartily, “and I would have undertaken it under much smaller temptation than you offer. Your proposition is most generous and flattering in spite of your modest way of putting it.”
“Wait till you hear the particulars before you commit yourself,” interrupted Fraser settling back among his pillows. “I’ll spin you a little yarn. It’s not long and I don’t think you’ll find it dull.”
“Go on; and don’t cut it short,” assented Brent keenly interested.
“You know that I’ve knocked about the world a good deal and among all sorts of people,” began the old man deliberately. “Somehow I have spent nearly all of my life in new countries. Thirty years ago I went to California. I was for a long time in Australia, and for the last eight years I have been in the southern countries of South America. I have tried mining, ranching, fruit farming, cattle raising, made and lost small fortunes at each, and on the whole have enjoyed life. About eighteen months ago, I visited the small colonies along the Argentine coast well down into Patagonian latitudes. I stopped finally at a little settlement near the mouth of the Rio Negro or Black River. There were strong indications there of mineral wealth. Then, too, the climate was agreeable, game was abundant, and I thought I might do a little profitable trading with the Indians. I had taken with me from Buenos Ayres quite a collection of small things in order to make the trip profitable if possible.
“I suppose you have heard the usual stories about the native Patagonians—that they are all giants and terribly ferocious and that they kill all foreigners who try to intrude into their country for fear they will discover the fabulous treasures that the Indians have been guarding for centuries. Well, those yarns are all bosh. I have traded with the Indians, picked up some of their lingo, hunted with them, and visited some of their villages. They are much like other primitive races, more intelligent in some respects, better made physically but not giants, and there are no buried cities or ancient temples filled with gold for them to guard. They have some admirable qualities not ruined yet by civilization, but they will not survive long after they become better acquainted with the trader and the whisky barrel.
“It’s a wonderful country, lad, that the Tehuelches live in. That’s the name of the general tribe of natives in all the region south of the Rio Negro. There isn’t a rougher, more inhospitable coast-line on all the footstool than the thousand miles or so from Rio Negro to Santa Cruz. The Indians themselves say it would take one of them at least two years to follow the coast by land from one point to the other. But there’s a fine country inland, back of nature’s barricade. Never mind about that now; you’ll see it for yourself. I spent more than six months previous to last May in and around the little settlement at the mouth of the Rio Negro. I cultivated the natives from the first and managed to get on good terms with some of them. I made them small presents, traded with them, and taught them some new points in hunting and fishing. I prospected a good deal and became convinced that there was valuable mineral wealth in the rocky districts near the coast. I could do very little, however, toward testing this point with my primitive appliances, though I did manage to collect a few ounces of free gold in the course of several weeks’ search. I found that the Indians were familiar with the metal, but they were absolutely close-mouthed on the subject. All my attempts to gain information about gold deposits served only to make them suspicious and silent.
“Most of the Indians I met belonged to a division or sub-tribe known as the Caillitchets, or non-speakers. For many years they have been morose and almost dumb. The story is that three or four of their chiefs, or caciques, whom they believed to be immortal and invulnerable were killed in battle three or four generations ago. Ever since the entire tribe has been gloomy, indifferent, and given up to a sort of savage cynicism. They used to bring gold-dust to the occasional traders who touched at points along the coast, but the yellow metal excited such evidences of cupidity in the white men that the Indians apparently became afraid it would tempt an invasion of their domicile. At all events they stopped all barter, having nothing else of value to offer in exchange for traders’ goods. There are some interesting stories among the settlers at Rio Negro about those days. The same thing is said about these Indians that is told about the natives of Ecuador, that they brought quantities of gold-dust to the traders, made their bargains, and then threw into the river all they had remaining of the precious metal. Two or three small expeditions at one time or another about thirty years ago attempted to follow the Indians back into the country, but none of the adventurers were ever heard of again.
“They are a tamer people now. A white man who takes care to treat them well is comparatively safe among them. They are not treacherous like their North American brethren and I have spent weeks with them without meeting any suggestion of hostility.
“I made especial effort to gain the confidence of their principal cacique, a fine old warrior whom they call Casimiro. He is a wonderful old man, more than ninety years old he says, and I believe him. Centenarians are by no means rare among these people and I met one old fellow who claims more than one hundred and twenty birthdays. Casimiro is remarkably intelligent, remarkably broad in his ideas, for a savage. I became quite attached to him, hunted and fished with him, and we had many long talks together. He has picked up a good deal of Spanish, and he taught me enough of his language to enable me to get along very well with the others of the tribe. He took very deeply to heart the decadence of his people. In all Patagonia now there are