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“At a glance Tom saw the Bear watching the man
crouching among the branches.”—Page 217. Tom
Thatcher’s Fortune.
So he quietly and carefully took aim, and then pulled the trigger.
The grizzly uttered an angry growl, and correctly guessing the
quarter from which the attack had come, was fired with revenge. He
started toward Tom, and our hero would have stood a slender
chance had the great beast succeeded in reaching him. But the shot
had done its work.
The grizzly had scarcely gone a rod when he staggered and fell in
a great floundering mass upon the ground.
Tom was already up in the tree he had selected for a refuge
before he ventured to look at his enemy.
His heart was elate with joy and triumph when he saw how
effective had been his shot. It was no light thing for a boy not yet
seventeen to bring down the monarch of the California forests.
The bear made a few convulsive movements, and then settled into
the rigidity of death.
“He’s done for!” exclaimed the stranger joyfully, preparing to
descend the tree. “He will never trouble us any more.”
“Then I’ll come down,” said Tom.
Together they met beside the huge beast.
Then the stranger, turning to Tom, said:
“My young friend, you have saved my life. That is a debt I never
can pay, but I don’t mean to let it go unacknowledged. What is your
name, and where do you live?”
“My name is Tom Thatcher, and I live at Rocky Gulch.”
“Ha! I am going there. We will go together.”
“I shall be glad of your company,” said Tom, politely.
On the way the stranger introduced himself as Robert Percival, a
banker, from San Francisco.
“I have some interests at Rocky Gulch,” he said. “I feel an
affection for the spot, for here I laid the foundation of my fortune.
Feeling the need of a little rest from business cares, I have come out
here from the city. By Jove! I came near getting a permanent
vacation. If you hadn’t come to my help, I can’t undertake to say
that I should ever have been able to return to any business in the
city.”
Toward the close of the afternoon Tom and his new friend reached
Rocky Gulch.
CHAPTER XLII.
A STARTLING DISCLOSURE.
A
S THERE was no hotel, nor even tavern, at Rocky Gulch, the
banker, Percival, gladly accepted Tom’s invitation to pass the
night at the cabin occupied jointly by himself and his two
friends.
“But what will your friends say?” asked Percival.
“They will be glad of your company,” said Tom, promptly.
The banker looked pleased.
“My visit will prove pleasanter than I anticipated,” he said.
When they reached the cabin Tom found that Mr. Brush was much
better. In fact, he and the doctor were at the door smoking.
“Dr. Spooner, Mr. Brush,” said our hero, “allow me to introduce a
new acquaintance, Mr. Percival, of San Francisco.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Percival,” was the cordial greeting of both,
as they extended their hands.
“I have promised Mr. Percival accommodations for the night,”
continued Tom.
“He shall be welcome if he doesn’t object to rough it,” answered
Brush. “We don’t live in a palace.”
“My friend,” said the banker, “it seems to me a palace compared
with what would have been my lodging but for the lucky chance of
meeting your young friend here.”
The doctor and Mr. Brush looked inquiringly first at one, then at
the other.
Tom smiled, but left Mr. Percival to tell the story.
“I was emphatically up a tree,” said the banker, “with a grizzly
standing guard underneath, when this brave boy (Tom blushed at
the compliment) came up, and taking effectual aim, disposed of Mr.
Bruin.”
“You don’t mean to say you killed a grizzly, Tom?” exclaimed Mr.
Brush, in excitement.
“It is a literal fact,” said Robert Percival, “and one of the largest
specimens I have ever seen.”
“Where is he?”
“We were not able to bring him along,” said Tom, smiling. “If you
and the doctor can manage him I will give him to you.”
“I’ve always wanted to kill a grizzly,” said Peter Brush,
meditatively. “It would be a feather in my cap. Yet here am I, a man
of fifty-two, and I have not had a chance yet, while you, a mere
stripling, have succeeded.”
“I didn’t go to do it,” said Tom, with a queer smile.
“No, but you’ve done it, while neither I nor my friend the doctor, I
presume, have ever succeeded.”
“I think I could dispose of a first-class grizzly if he would only
consent to take my medicines,” said the doctor, dryly.
At this there was a general laugh.
“Mr. Percival,” said the doctor, “I venture to say that you and Tom
are hungry.”
“I am famished,” said the banker.
“I am glad you are hungry, for I am cook this week, and hungry
men are not fastidious.”
“I will help you, doctor,” said Peter Brush.
“Out of regard for our guest I will accept your offer,” said Dr.
Spooner. “I am sorry I haven’t a few pounds of Tom’s grizzly to
cook.”
“I am content that he didn’t make a meal of me,” said the banker,
shrugging his shoulders.
Supper was enjoyed, and the four who partook of it were
unusually jovial.
After the meal was finished Robert Percival’s business instinct led
him to inquire of his hosts how well they had succeeded in their
mining. He was surprised to learn how much gold dust they had
accumulated.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “business is business, and that as well as
the need of recreation has brought me out here. If you feel inclined
to part with your dust I will make you as favorable an offer as any
one in San Francisco, and give you drafts in payment.”
The three partners consulted, and Peter Brush acted as
spokesman, and promptly accepted their guest’s offer.
“Nothing will suit us better,” he said. “We are sure you will deal
honorably with us.”
“Even if such were not my custom,” said Percival, “I would do so
for the sake of your young associate, who has rendered me so
important a service. I confess my surprise at seeing so young a boy
engaged in this business. Is he related to either of you?”
This drew out Tom’s story. It was told partly by Mr. Brush, partly
by our young hero himself.
Robert Percival listened from the first with interest. But as the
story proceeded, and reached the point where our hero’s father was
robbed and left for dead near the very spot where they were
conversing, his interest increased, and was apparently mingled with
surprise. When the tale was told he ejaculated:
“This is a most extraordinary occurrence.”
“Not so extraordinary,” said Brush. “In the early days of California
emigration, robbery and murder could not have been so very
uncommon.”
“But you don’t understand me, my friend. It is extraordinary that
this story should be told to me.”
“Why?” asked Brush and Tom, and the doctor looked equally
inquisitive.
“Why? Because I myself found the bag of gold dust of which the
boy is in search, and I was one of the party who found his father
and carried him from the gulch!”
This statement was listened to with unbounded amazement by his
three listeners.
CHAPTER XLIII.
TOM COMES INTO A FORTUNE.
T
HERE was deep silence for more than a minute.
All eyes were turned upon him who had made so
extraordinary a statement.
Then Tom asked in a subdued tone:
“Was my father dead?”
“No, but he was insensible from concussion of the brain.”
“How long did he live, Mr. Percival?”
“HE IS LIVING NOW!” answered the banker.
Tom stared at the speaker in incredulous amazement. Dr. Lycurgus
B. Spooner and Mr. Brush seemed equally amazed. All looked to their
guest for an explanation.
“You wonder,” continued the banker, without waiting to be
questioned, “you wonder, no doubt, why, if this is the case, that your
father did not return to his home and family. I can tell you in four
sad words. Though your father did not lose his life, he did lose his
reason. The blow which he received upon his head affected his
brain, and he has never recovered the use of his mental faculties
since.”
“Where is he?” asked Tom, soberly, for this was heavy news.
“He is boarding in a private family in San Francisco. Let me
explain, that, though he is not sane, he is not violent, and does not
therefore require to be confined in an asylum. He is quiet and sane
in many respects. He boards in a small family where there are
children, and so far as one in his condition may, he appears to enjoy
life. He is in good physical condition, works about the garden, goes
on errands for the family, and is able to be useful in many ways.”
“But what supports him?” asked Tom, anxiously. “His board
amounts to something. How is it paid?”
“I pay it,” answered Mr. Percival.
Tom rose impulsively and seized his hand.
“Thank you, sir, for your generous kindness to my poor father,” he
said.
“My boy, I would be glad to accept your thanks, if I deserved
them, but you must remember that for eight years I have had
possession of a considerable sum of money belonging to your
father.”
“But you did not know it was his.”
“True, I did not know it, but I guessed it. I may as well explain
that though I was only one of a party who discovered and rescued
your father, I alone found the gold dust. Being found so near your
father, I at once came to the conclusion that it was his, and resolved
to devote so much of the income of it as might be needed to his
support and welfare. I found a poor but worthy family, to whom the
sum paid for his maintenance would be an important help, and I
placed him in their charge. He is with them now.”
“Is there no hope of his recovering his mind?” asked Tom,
anxiously.
“The doctor says that anything which will recall his old life may
restore his lost faculties. I think your presence, and what you could
tell him of your mother, and his old home, may have a very
important influence upon him.”
“Then I must go to him as soon as I can,” said Tom.
“Your eagerness is natural. A week hence I shall myself return. If
you will wait till then I shall be able to introduce you to his presence.
He knows me, and considers me his friend.”
“Dr. Spooner,” said Tom, “I shall be sorry to leave you and Mr.
Brush, but I feel that I ought to go to my father as soon as
possible.”
“Of course, of course, Tom,” said Peter; “but we sha’n’t be
separated. We will all go together.”
“So say I,” said Dr. Lycurgus Spooner.
“Good!” said Tom, joyfully.
“Then,” said the banker, “I shall be able to complete my business
with you all. I have bought your gold dust, you remember, and must
settle for it. I can do so better in San Francisco than here. Besides, I
shall have a large account to settle with my young friend here.”
“With me?” asked Tom.
“Yes, the gold dust which I found I shall return to you with
interest.”
“But you have spent the interest on my father.”
“Only a small part. Let me tell you, my boy, that that gold was the
foundation of my fortune. It amounted to a little over twelve
thousand dollars. I invested in building-lots in the city, and sold out
at an immense profit. I am now worth half a million, and that was
the nucleus of my fortune.”
“Half a million!” exclaimed Peter Brush, regarding his guest with
awe.
“Yes. Now, let me tell you what I propose to do. To my young
friend, Tom, I will turn over twenty-five thousand dollars, if he will
give me a receipt in full for the money belonging to his father, which
I have been using for eight years.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars! Mr. Percival, that is too much.”
“It is not enough, but if you are satisfied, I will accept the rest as
a voluntary concession of your rights.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars will make us all rich,” said Tom, his
eyes glowing with joy. “Mother can live like a lady.”
“As I am sure she is.”
“In that case,” said Tom, “I won’t claim any of the gold which we
have found here. Doctor, I give you and Mr. Brush my share.”
At first his two friends opposed this, but Tom was firm, and,
knowing that he was now rich, they ceased their opposition.
A week later, the three friends, in company with Mr. Percival, set
out for San Francisco, which they reached without any adventure
which we feel called upon to record.
CHAPTER XLIV.
A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.
I
N THE upper part of San Francisco, where now stand fine
mansions, there were at the time of my story, only a few small
and modest houses, with land enough attached for a kitchen
garden.
One of these was occupied by David Temple, employed as a clerk
in the city. In his family for years Robert Thatcher had made his
home.
He was at work in the garden—a man of about fifty, but looking
considerably older on account of his hair, which had become
prematurely whitened. His figure was slightly bent, and his face was
embrowned by exposure. Physically he looked well, but in his face
there was something wanting. His intellect was clouded, but many
had conversed with him for an hour at a time without ascertaining
the fact.
On many subjects Mr. Thatcher was sane, but on others his
memory was at fault. This was especially the case when his own
history was referred to. A veil seemed to shut out all that part of his
existence which preceded his coming to California.
“Where did you live before coming to this State, Mr. Thatcher?”
asked a visitor one day.
“Eh?” asked Thatcher, looking puzzled.
The question was repeated.
A troubled look overspread the face of the stricken man, as he
answered slowly:
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know?” was the amazed rejoinder.
“No, I can’t seem to remember.”
The visitor was called away, and privately informed of Mr.
Thatcher’s peculiarity.
The Temple family took special care to avoid all disquieting
allusions. They never in conversation referred to their guest’s past
history, at least to that part of his life which preceded his arrival on
the Pacific coast.
All these particulars were communicated to Tom by Mr. Percival
when they were on their way to the city.
“Don’t you think there is any chance of father’s recovery?” asked
our hero, considerably troubled.
“Yes I believe the sight of you will have a powerful effect.”
“But I was only a little boy when father left us. He will hardly be
able to see any resemblance between me and the little boy he left
behind him.”
“Tell him your name. Speak to him of your mother and sister; it
may awaken old memories and associations.”
This advice seemed good to Tom and he determined to follow it.
When on the day of his arrival in San Francisco he went out with
the banker to the little cottage where his father was domesticated,
Tom felt agitated, and with reason. He was about to see the father
whom he had long supposed to be dead, and to test the possibility
of his recovery.
“Is that he?” asked Tom, clutching the arm of Mr. Percival.
“Yes, Tom. Would you recognize him?”
“He looks much older, but his face looks natural. May I speak to
him?”
“No; let me speak first. He knows me.”
“Good-day, Mr. Thatcher,” said the banker.
“Good-day, sir,” answered Thatcher, politely.
“I hope you are well.”
“Quite well, sir.”
His eyes rested upon Tom, and a puzzled expression swept over
his face.
“Who is that?” he asked, abruptly.
“It is a young friend of mine. His name is Tom.”
“Where was it?” he continued, dreamily. “Tom! Tom! I once knew
a boy of that name.”
“It is a common name. This boy is Tom Thatcher.”
The old man clutched his hoe convulsively.
“What did you say?” he asked, eagerly.
“Tom Thatcher—the same as yours.”
“Let me look at him,” said Thatcher, abruptly, hurrying to Tom and
looking into his face with a bewildered look.
“Boy,” he said, hoarsely, “where do you come from? Who is your
father?”
“I come from the town of Wilton,” answered Tom, trembling with
excitement. “My father’s name was Robert Thatcher.”
“Wilton! Robert Thatcher! Why, that’s my name! Good heaven!
what does this mean?”
“Did you ever have a son named Tom?” asked the banker.
“Why—yes,” answered Thatcher, his face lighting up with returning
memory.
“And a daughter named Tillie?” asked Tom.
“Yes, yes! I remember it all now. Where, where are they?”
And he clutched Tom’s arm as he searched his face for an answer.
“Father,” said Tom, with emotion, “I am your son Tom.”
“And—and your mother?”
“She still lives. She is waiting for you to return to her.”
Robert Thatcher passed his hand over his brow.
“Can this be true?” he asked, “or is it a dream?”
“It is no dream, father. I have come to California to take you
home. Will you come?”
“Yes, yes, now. But,” he added, with momentary doubt, “you
cannot be Tom. Tom was a little boy, and you are a large one. He
was only half your size.”
“That was long ago, father. I have grown up, but I am the same
Tom.”
It must not be supposed that Robert Thatcher recovered his
memory and reason all at once. It was not till Tom talked with him
day after day, and patiently recalled one circumstance after another,
and one person after another living in their native village, that the
veil which had hung between him and the past was rent at length,
and the bright light of fully recovered reason illumined his mind. Tom
did not act wholly according to his own judgment, but he was aided
and advised by a skillful physician, conversant with mental maladies
similar to that by which Mr. Thatcher was afflicted.
At length he was repaid for his patient labor. His father’s mind
returned to its normal condition, and four weeks after his arrival in
San Francisco Tom and his father sailed for New York by the regular
steamer.
Mr. Percival had settled up his indebtedness, and Tom carried with
him drafts on New York for twenty-four thousand dollars. A part of
the remaining thousand paid their passage, and the balance Tom
carried with him in hard cash. Of course, the money properly
belonged to his father, but it was Mr. Thatcher’s desire that Tom
should relieve him entirely of business cares.
We must precede him, and let the reader know what had
happened in Wilton while Tom was away.
CHAPTER XLV.
HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME.
W
E GO back to the time of Tom’s leaving home.
His departure from Wilton excited considerable surprise,
more especially as people could not find out where he had gone.
Many were the inquiries made of Mrs. Thatcher, but she answered as
Tom had requested her, “Tom has gone West.”
“Indeed, has he gone far West?”
“I can’t tell you precisely how far West he has gone,” answered
Mrs. Thatcher, smiling.
“Will he be gone long?”
“That depends on how successful he is in his business.”
“I suppose he has taken some agency?” remarked Miss Woodward
(an inquiring old maid).
Mrs. Thatcher said neither yes nor no, but somehow Miss
Woodward got the idea that she said yes, and so reported
throughout the village.
Mrs. Thatcher and Tillie moved to the comfortable farm-house of
Mr. Hiram Bacon, as had been arranged before Tom went away, and
this made Tom’s departure a little less mysterious, since he was
leaving his mother and sister in a good home.
Still there was considerable curiosity felt, and there seemed a
chance of finding out something when Tom wrote home.
“Have you heard from Tom yet?” asked the indefatigable Miss
Woodward, a little later.
“Where did he write from?” asked the old maid, eagerly.
“From St. Louis,” answered our hero’s mother, with a little
hesitation.
“Ah! St. Louis is a good way off. Is he going any further?”
“Perhaps so.”
Another letter came to Mrs. Thatcher from St. Joseph, announcing
that Tom was going across the plains, and that it might be a good
while before he would be able to write again.
Mrs. Thatcher did not mention this second letter, but the
postmaster noticed the postmark, and through him it became
known.
Among those who heard of it was John Simpson. Rupert had
picked up the news somewhere in the village.
“St. Joseph!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson, startled. “Why, it looks as if
the boy was on his way to California.”
“How could he go to California?” said Rupert, rather enviously.
“Doesn’t it cost a good deal of money?”
“Yes.”
“He’s as poor as poverty.”
“True; but he has found money enough to go to St. Joseph, and
that is no trifle.”
Mr. Simpson felt uneasy. Was it because he feared that the ghastly
mystery connected with Rocky Gulch would be unearthed, and his
reputation blasted. At any rate, he decided to see Mrs. Thatcher
himself, and find out what he could.
He did not call at the new home of the widow of his old partner,
but chanced one day to meet her in the street.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Thatcher,” said the squire, affably.
“Good-morning, sir,” responded Mrs. Thatcher, coldly.
“I hear your son is away. You must miss him.”
“I do miss him, Mr. Simpson.”
“Has he gone far?”
“He has gone to the West.”
“Far West?”
“I have not heard from him lately.”
“Ha! There is something she wishes to conceal,” thought John
Simpson.
“I am afraid he won’t get back the money his traveling expenses
must cost him.”
“He was obliged to do something, Mr. Simpson. There was no
chance left for him in Wilton.”
“When you write to him, tell him that I will give him back his old
place if he sees fit to come back.”
“I will tell him,” said Mrs. Thatcher, but she expressed no
gratitude, for she felt none.
Why did John Simpson make this offer? Because he wanted to
keep Tom away from California. After so many years, there seemed
little enough chance of the boy’s learning anything of the
circumstances attending his father’s fate, but a guilty conscience
makes men cowards, and John Simpson was troubled with an
uneasy idea that some time, in some way to him unknown his crime
might be made known.
There was another circumstance that puzzled him. How did Tom
Thatcher obtain the necessary funds for so expensive a journey?
Probably, he said to himself, Mrs. Thatcher had mortgaged her
house, and given Tom the money. He determined to find out if he
could.
“You must excuse what I am about to say, Mrs. Thatcher,” he
began, clearing his throat to begin with, “but I am afraid you did a
foolish thing in raising money on your place to pay the expenses of
such a wild-goose chase.”
“Who told you I had mortgaged my place, Mr. Simpson?”
demanded the widow, looking the rich man full in the face.
“Why, no one,” stammered the squire, taken aback by her
directness, “but I of course inferred it, knowing that Tom had no
money of his own.”
“Then you inferred a mistake,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “The place is
not mortgaged.”
“You don’t say so!” said Simpson, more than ever bewildered.
“I do not propose to mortgage my place at present.”
“When you do,” said Simpson, recovering himself, “come to me. I
will do as well by you as any one.”
It would indeed have suited him to obtain a lien upon Mrs.
Thatcher’s humble homestead, that he might have her in his power.
She neither said yes nor no, but “I will bear in mind your offer, Mr.
Simpson.”
He walked slowly away, puzzling over the problem of where Tom
obtained his money. Was there some one behind who backed him?
Was there some one who had sent him to California, and, if so, why?
He must know whether Tom had gone there.
Now, the postmaster had obtained his office through Mr.
Simpson’s influence, and was therefore likely to do him a favor.
“Mr. Jackson,” he said, when alone with that functionary, “does
Mrs. Thatcher write to her son Tom?”
“I haven’t noticed any letter, sir.”
“When she brings one, please notice the address, and let me
know it. I am afraid the boy will spend all his mother’s property if no
one interferes. I want to write to him to come back. I will give him
employment.”
“Very kind of you, sir,” said the postmaster, obsequiously.
“He is the son of my old associate,” said John Simpson, with an
assumption of generosity, “and I naturally feel an interest in him and
his mother.”
But for weeks Mrs. Thatcher brought no letters to the office. Tom
was on the plains, and she knew not where to address him.
CHAPTER XLVI.
MRS. THATCHER LOSES HER NEW HOME.
O
NE DAY, about four months after Tom’s departure, John
Simpson sat at his writing-desk, busy about some accounts,
when Rupert entered the room in visible excitement.
“Father,” he said, “what do you think? Hiram Bacon died last
night.”
In a village like Wilton the death of a well-known citizen,
especially if it is sudden, creates excitement.
“You must be mistaken, Rupert,” said his father. “I saw Mr. Bacon
no later than yesterday afternoon in the post-office.”
“He’s dead now,” persisted Rupert. “He was found dead in bed this
morning. The doctor says he died of heart disease.”
“That’s very sudden,” said John Simpson, no longer incredulous. “I
can hardly believe it.”
“I wonder where Tom Thatcher’s mother will live now,” continued
Rupert.
“I didn’t think of that,” said his father, his face lighting up with
satisfaction. “To be sure, it will be a great loss to her. She will lose a
comfortable living.”
“I’m glad of it,” said Rupert.
“Rupert, Rupert, don’t rejoice over the misfortunes of your
neighbors,” but he spoke very mildly.
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