I arrived at Placerville the following day. Due to taking a road not
shown on my map, I went several miles astray and for some few hours was
immersed in wild, chaparral-covered mountains, with evidences on all
hands of deserted mines; finally crossing a divide at an elevation of
two thousand feet and descending into the valley where slumbers the
little town of El Dorado, formerly bearing the less attractive
designation "Mud Springs." This title, though lacking in euphony, was
more in keeping with actual conditions, since the valley is noted for
its springs, and Diamond Springs, a mile or two north, is quite a summer
resort. Nor is there any indication of the precious metal anywhere in
the immediate vicinity.
In Placerville - known as "Hangtown" in the Bret Harte days - I
registered at the Cary House, which once had the honor of entertaining
no less a personage than Horace Greeley. It was here he terminated his
celebrated stage ride with Hank Monk. I found that my friend Harold
Edward Smith had gone to Coloma, eight miles on the road to Auburn, and
had left a note saying he would wait for me there the following morning.
Chapter IV
J. H. Bradley and the Cary House. Ruins of Coloma. James W. Marshall and
His Pathetic End.
More than any other town, Placerville gave a suggestion of the olden
times. "John Oakhurst" and "Jack Hamlin" would still be in their
element, as witness the following scene:
In the card room back of the bar, in a certain hotel, a "little game"
was in progress. A big, blond giant, with curly hair and clean-cut
features - indeed he could have posed as a model for Praxiteles - arose
nonchalantly from the table as I entered, and swept the stakes into a
capacious pocket. An angry murmur of disapproval came from the sitters,
and one man muttered something about "quitting the game a winner." With
a hand on each hip, the giant swept the disgruntled upturned faces with
a comprehensive glance, and drawled: "I'll admit there's something wrong
in mine, gentlemen, or I wouldn't be here, see?" He waited a moment and
amid silence passed slowly through the barroom to the sidewalk, seated
himself, stretched his long legs and placidly gazed across the street.
In the morning I had a long talk with Mr. J. H. Bradley, perhaps the
best known man in El Dorado County. Though in his eighty-fourth year,
his keen brown eyes still retain the fire and light of youth. The
vitality of these old pioneers is something marvelous. Mr. Bradley was
born in Kentucky, but, as a boy, moved to Hannibal, Missouri, where he
played marbles with Mark Twain, or Clemens, as he prefers to call him.
In '49, he came across the plains to California.
