# St. Nicholas/Volume 32/Number 2/California Burglar

* related authors: John R. Bacon.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
An Old-time California Burglar.
By Joaquin Miller.
In the fall of 1849, Mr. Andrew Jackson Larison sailed out of Boston harbor for the gold-mines of California.
The first day out the handle of his name was knocked off, for this bright and handsome boy was working his way on a sailing ship around Cape Horn, and sea captains of those days had no time to waste on long names. He was only Larison after he left land and his visiting-card behind him.
On landing in San Francisco, Mr. Andrew Jackson Larison of Boston, Massachusetts, was taken down with the smallpox, The poor fellow left the hospital without a dollar or a friend, and with hardly a spare garment. Still he was stout of heart, a brave and determined boy, as were ten thousand others of those The Captain. times who were trying to make a little fortune for the dear ones at home, and he did not falter.
The day after leaving the hospital, with his pale, thin face all in dots and spots, he engaged to work his passage up the Sacramento River to the mines.
“What is your name?” demanded the gruff captain with a green patch on his right eye and a silver-mounted six-shooter in his belt.
“Andrew Jackson Larison, sir,” said the pale young man with the spots and dots on his face.
“Hey? Well, Mr. Andrew Jackson Lazarus,” roared the captain, “take that coal-shovel and report to the mate, and be quick it, too.”
And so Lazarus became his name,—Lazarus, and Lazarus only, for soon the other parts of his name were again rubbed off.
When young Larison reached the gold-mines he found there had been a great stampede for mines said to be of fabulous richness farther on over the mountains. All along the banks of the little gold-bearing river he saw deserted cabins, the latch-string hanging out ready for any who chose to enter and, take possession.
A good custom was this in the old days. Let a party of gold-hunters, game-hunters, or even hunters after health, go into the mountains and build a cabin for the season, care was always taken to leave it neat and clean and ready for the first poor wayfarer who might pass.that way.
Larison pushed as far on up the stream as his legs would take him the first day. Near the lead of the placer-mines he found a cabin with the rickety door wide open. He entered and took possession.
A fine stream of water rippled and ran through the mossy boulders under the great, sweeping pine and fir and yew trees. The place was so still that the young man could hear his heart beat as he stood on the earthen floor before the huge fireplace and looked about. In one corner was a battered old rocker, a shovel, pick, and a few other tools. In the southwest corner arose a tier of “bunks,” not unlike the berths of a ship in arrangement. In each bunk was spread a thick layer of fir and pine boughs, which gave out a pleasant odor. But on the topmost bunk, best of all, the thoughtful miners, on going away, had thrown their rough, outer clothing as well as some empty flour-sacks, gunny-bags, and so on.
Larison hastily climbed up to this topmost bunk, by setting his feet on the two lower bunks as if mounting a ladder, and the poor fellow soon had a fairly comfortable bed arranged on top of the fragrant boughs. Then he descended, struck a match, and from the pine quills and pine knots to be had at the ​door for the picking up, he built a fire so bright that it lit up the laughing little stream through the open door.
He went out, washed his hands and face in the cool water, took a refreshing drink, returned to his cabin, closed the door, and dined heartily on cookies and cheese which the gruff but kind old captain had made him put in his pocket on leaving the boat.
Our young gold-hunter slept soundly. He was now “an honest miner,” with cabin, bunk, tools, claim,—all things, indeed, but gold. Was the gold there in the ground, down on the bedrock, deep under the big mossy boulders? He would soon see.
With sleeves rolled above his elbows, and with bare feet, he wrought and he wrestled till nearly sundown. Not a “color,” although he struck the hard, blue bed-rock in many places, that first day.
He climbed out of his claim, very tired and hungry, but not disheartened. The water had sung pleasantly to him all day. Beautiful wild flowers had leaned out from the bank, as if to comfort him in his solitude. The great solemn pines sang their mighty monotone in the warm winds of the sierras high over his head, and it made him think pleasantly of the pine woods of home.
He had passed by a small grocery-store the evening before, a mile or so down the stream. Thither he now returned, after arranging his tattered raiment as best he might, and laid his case before the bearded Missourian who kept the “store.” As the Missourian was both kind and anxious to see work resumed at the deserted diggings, he readily let Larison have “on tick? what he timidly asked for—a cod-fish and two pounds of crackers.
Next day the same song of the pines, the same sweet flowers leaning from the banks of the tumbling little stream, the same strenuous toil, too,— but not a color of gold!
The lad was growing dizzy as he leaned over to strike a few last blows in the depths of a crevice of the bed-rock which he had been following all day without even a color to encourage him. His pick sank deep,—deeper than ever before,—and the clear water took on a dirty clay hue. He leaned over, took a handful of this dirty yellow stuff from the point of his pick, and was about to throw it behind him and strike again, when he saw something glitter in his hand. He stooped to the water, and saw—“ Gold! gold! gold!”
It did not take long to let the water wash the clay away as it ran gurgling down the crevice. Before it was yet fairly night the hungry man had nearly filled with gold dust a little pint cup which he found in the cabin.
But it was clear that this was only a “pocket.” If he had had half a day still before him, he would have been able to scoop it out and turn his back on it all; in which case this story would not have been written.
The resolute boy had those dependent on him far away who were very dear. They would need all the gold. And then it was only one more day at furthest. He would remain to get all. With this resolution and a light heart, although a heavy step, he tottered down to the store. He would not—he could not—leave his gold behind him. He went his way, thinking all the time what he would have to eat on his return.
Ham! Ham and onions! Fried ham and onions! That was what he would have. He almost ran as he neared the store.
Four men were playing cards at a table as he came in. Two others lay on benches, asleep. The return tide of the stampede had set in, and men were not nearly so scarce in the camp as before. Larison let bis gold sink deep down in his pocket.
He found the bearded Missourian behind his counter, and asked to pay his bill. The store-keeper seemed to have forgotten him. But after looking him in the face for a while, he said: “Oh, yes, yes! I remember you now. Let me see what it was you got.”
Turning around to the wall he put bis finger on a number of little dots and spots. These were for Larison’s name; for the storekeeper could not read. Under the spots and dots were the tail of a fish and the outline of a cracker, with four little marks below.
“I also want a ham and a pound of crackers—a whole ham. I'm hungry, And I want onions—a pound of onions!”
The storekeeper handed over the ham, tied up the crackers, and took the gold and weighed ​out his due. Larison immediately picked up his bundle and started for his cabin.
How fast he did walk! And how fragrant was that ham as it fried and cooked in the new fire on the hearthstone! The bag of gold he laid on the table. Now and then the young man turned his eye from the pan to the gold with a happy heart. One more day, then home!
He set the pan of frizzing ham on the table, closed the door, and sat down to his meal.
Suddenly there was a noise outside. The young man started to his feet, trembling and pale. “The door was now broken open with a terrific crash.” The noise grew louder, as of many feet, now close to the door.
But he did not lose his presence of mind. He was certain the noise was of the four men he had seen at the card-table.
He had noticed them shrink from him and whisper among themselves. At the time he had thought they were referring to the fresh marks of smallpox on his face. The singular way in which the storekeeper had set down his name on the wall confirmed him in this. But why should those men come to rob him if they believed he had the smallpox? Was his gold more precious to them than life?
How quickly a man thinks at a time like this! What was to be done? He was alone and unarmed. There were, he believed, four burglars—no doubt, all well armed. The noise grew louder. There was a great battering at the frail door.
Suddenly Larison made his plan. He dashed the gold against the stone wall that formed the back of the chimney. The precious contents sank down safe in the deep ashes.
Then with one bound Larison sprang up high in the topmost bunk and covered his face as he groaned: “Smallpox! Smallpox!”
The door was now broken open with a terrific crash.
Then Larison heard the din and rattle and noise of heavy feet. But there was no word spoken except by the youth with covered face, high up in the corner, who uttered the wail of “Smallpox! Smallpox! Smallpox!”
After a time Larison paused to listen. He could now hear nothing at all but the beating of his heart. He rubbed his hands with glee at the thought of his shrewd device. The gold, he knew, was all there in the ashes. Half an hour’s washing would restore it to him. Then he would get the rest out of the pocket, and strike for Massachusetts by the shortest possible route. Planning this, still full of heart and hope, he turned over in his bunk and fell asleep.
The sun was high when he awoke. Peering out cautiously, quite ready to hide his head and cry, “Smallpox!” at the first sight or sound of an intruder, he saw, heard—nothing at all!
Then he came down and looked about. The crackers were gone. The frying-pan lay upside down on the floor, The ham was gone also!
Turning to the door in a bewildered fashion, he saw on the soft earth outside the tracks of his assailant. They were big, broad tracks—the tracks of a grizzly bear. The smell of ham had made the bear a burglar!
But Larison was rich!