He rode into the front yard on the old gray horse "Fog," she on the small sorrel mare, "Lady." The riders each had a lead rope tied to the back of their saddles. Norman trailed the studs and Nancy tended the jennies. He'd learned a life-changing lesson at the north Georgia gold mines: he was absolutely no miner. He had also learned life does bless one with luck sometimes, and in surprising ways. Now he came home with some wisdom, pride, possibilities and a wife.
His home-leaving adventure was not a complicated or especially long story. He had gone away to strike it rich. With his dreams of gold and riches shattered in Dahlonega, he had come home within two months. A mean sore back, blistered hands, and trouble breathing in the dark, dusty holes had brought him to the realization that he required fresh air, nature's greenery, and home.
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Being smarter than stubborn, Norman gave up his gold prospecting. Mad at himself and disgusted with his foolishness, he got drunk in a canvas-covered saloon on foul home brew. With $18 left and in a hung over stupor, he was drawn into a poker game that developed into a two-hour whirlwind of win some, lose more. In the last hand, the liquor was wearing off. He had lost all but his clothes, hat, brogans, worn leather satchel with a few necessities and his rifle. He bet the Kentucky long gun in an all or nothing declaration. His father had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday. It was an old Kentucky rifle converted from cap and ball to percussion, but a prize, his only prize.
He was dealt three tens, a deuce and a seven. He took two cards and won the pot with four tens, ace kicker. He was one happy 18 year old pilgrim. His new estate included $37 in coin, $61 in dust, a broken gold pocket watch, 50 feet of good jute rope, three 20-pound sacks of crushed corn, and five donkeys - three jacks and two jennies. The biggest loser, a donkey seller/muleteer, was a dried up, wrinkled, brown man in funny clothes. Hailing from the Florida country, he had made his way somehow to the digs about a month ago. Norman figured out enough of his broken English to learn that he and his brother had brought 15 mules through Savannah to Georgia's gold country. Ten had been sold. His older brother had been sick on the trail from the coast, got worse and had died three days ago. He had buried his brother, said a prayer over his grave and got drunk, playing cards off and on during his grief drunk. With a busted heart and in his broken tongue the beaten little foreigner said to Norman as he patted the smallest donkey, "Go with God, Senor. You be good - them. You find good horse mare, good stud horse, breed them and make fine mules, good strong mules." The former owner helped Norman make a lead line, communicating with chopped words and acting out. He showed him how to secure the donkeys in a line, one after another. The largest animal was in the lead and one of the jennies in the rear.