EPISODES
IN THE STORY OF A MINE No one could live at
Silverado and not be curious
about the story of the mine. We were surrounded by so many evidences of
expense
and toil, we lived so entirely in the wreck of that great enterprise,
like
mites in the ruins of a cheese, that the idea of the old din and bustle
haunted
our repose. Our own house, the forge, the dump, the chutes, the rails,
the
windlass, the mass of broken plant; the two tunnels, one far below in
the green
dell, the other on the platform where we kept our wine; the deep shaft,
with
the sun-glints and the water-drops; above all, the ledge, that great
gaping slice
out of the mountain shoulder, propped apart by wooden wedges, on whose
immediate margin, high above our heads, the one tall pine precariously
nodded —
these stood for its greatness; while, the dog-hutch, bootjacks, old
boots, old
tavern bills, and the very beds that we inherited from bygone miners,
put in
human touches and realised for us the story of the past. I have sat on an old
sleeper, under the thick
madronas near the forge, with just a look over the dump on the green
world
below, and seen the sun lying broad among the wreck, and heard the
silence
broken only by the tinkling water in the shaft, or a stir of the royal
family about
the battered palace, and my mind has gone back to the epoch of the
Stanleys and
the Chapmans, with a grand tutti of
pick and drill, hammer and anvil, echoing about the canyon; the assayer
hard at
it in our dining-room; the carts below on the road, and their cargo of
red mineral
bounding and thundering down the iron chute. And now all gone — all
fallen away
into this sunny silence and desertion: a family of squatters dining in
the assayer's
office, making their beds in the big sleeping-room erstwhile so
crowded,
keeping their wine in the tunnel that once rang with picks. But
Silverado itself, although now fallen in its
turn into decay, was once but a mushroom, and had succeeded to other
mines and
other flitting cities. Twenty years ago, away down the glen on the Lake
County
side there was a place, Jonestown by name, with two thousand
inhabitants
dwelling under canvas, and one roofed house for the sale of whiskey.
Round on
the western side of Mount Saint Helena, there was at the same date, a
second
large encampment, its name, if it ever had one, lost for me. Both of
these have
perished, leaving not a stick and scarce a memory behind them. Tide
after tide
of hopeful miners have thus flowed and ebbed about the mountain, coming
and
going, now by lone prospectors, now with a rush. Last, in order of time
came
Silverado, reared the big mill, in the valley, founded the town which
is now
represented, monumentally, by Hanson's, pierced all these slaps and
shafts and
tunnels, and in turn declined and died away. "Our noisy years seem moments in the wake Of the eternal silence." As to the success of
Silverado in its time of
being, two reports were current. According to the first, six hundred
thousand
dollars were taken out of that great upright seam, that still hung open
above
us on crazy wedges. Then the ledge pinched out, and there followed, in
quest of
the remainder, a great drifting and tunnelling in all directions, and a
great
consequent effusion of dollars, until, all parties being sick of the
expense,
the mine was deserted, and the town decamped. According to the second
version,
told me with much secrecy of manner, the whole affair, mine, mill, and
town,
were parts of one majestic swindle. There had never come any silver out
of any
portion of the mine; there was no silver to come. At midnight trains of
packhorses might have been observed winding by devious tracks about the
shoulder
of the mountain. They came from far away, from Amador or Placer, laden
with silver
in "old cigar boxes." They discharged their load at Silverado, in the
hour of sleep; and before the morning they were gone again with their
mysterious drivers to their unknown source. In this way, twenty
thousand
pounds' worth of silver was smuggled in under cover of night, in these
old
cigar ,boxes; mixed with Silverado mineral; carted down to the mill;
crushed,
amalgamated, and refined, and despatched to the city as the proper
product of the
mine. Stock-jobbing, if it can cover such expenses, must be a
profitable
business in San Francisco. I give these two versions
as I got them. But I place little
reliance on either, my
belief in history having been greatly shaken. For it chanced that I had
come to
dwell in Silverado at a critical hour; great events in its history were
about
to happen — did happen, as I am led to believe; nay, and it will be
seen that I
played a part in that revolution myself. And yet from first to last I
never had
a glimmer of an idea what was going on; and even now, after full
reflection,
profess myself at sea. That there was some obscure intrigue of the
cigar-box
order, and that I, in the character of a wooden puppet, set pen to
paper in the
interest of somebody, so much, and no more, is certain. Silverado, then under my
immediate sway, belonged
to one whom I will call a Mr. Ronalds. I only knew him through the
extraordinarily distorting medium of local gossip, now as a momentous
jobber; now
as a dupe to point an adage; and again, and much more probably, as an
ordinary
Christian gentleman like you or me, who had opened a mine and worked it
for a
while with better and worse fortune. So, through a defective
window-pane, you
may see the passer-by shoot up into a hunchbacked giant or dwindle into
a
potbellied dwarf. To Ronalds, at least, the
mine belonged; but
the notice by which he held it would run out upon the 30th of June — or
rather,
as I suppose, it had run out already, and the month of grace would
expire upon
that day, after which any American citizen might post a notice of his
own, and
make Silverado his. This, with a sort of quiet slyness, Rufe told me at
an
early period of our acquaintance. There was no silver, of course; the
mine
"wasn't worth nothing, Mr. Stevens," but there was a deal of old iron
and wood around, and to gain possession of this old wood and iron, and
get a right
to the water, Rufe proposed, if I had no objections, to "jump the
claim." Of course, I had no
objection. But I was filled
with wonder. If all he wanted was the wood and iron, what, in the name
of
fortune, was to prevent him taking them? "His right there was none to
dispute." He might lay hands on all to-morrow, as the wild cats had
laid
hands upon our knives and hatchet. Besides, was this mass of heavy
mining plant
worth transportation? If it was, why had not the rightful owners carted
it away?
If it was, would they not preserve their title to these movables, even
after
they had lost their title to the mine? And if it were not, what the
better was
Rufe? Nothing would grow at Silverado; there was even no wood to cut;
beyond a
sense of property, there was nothing to be gained. Lastly, was it at
all
credible that Ronalds would forget what Rufe remembered? The days of
grace were
not yet over: any fine morning he might appear, paper in hand, and
enter for
another year on his inheritance. However, it was none of my business;
all
seemed legal; Rufe or Ronalds, all was one to me. On the morning of the
27th, Mrs. Hanson appeared
with the milk as usual, in her sunbonnet. The time would be out on
Tuesday, she
reminded us, and bade me be in readiness to play my part, though I had
no idea what
it was to be. And suppose Ronalds came? we asked. She received the idea
with
derision, laughing aloud with all her fine teeth. He could not find the
mine to
save his life, it appeared, without Rufe to guide him. Last year, when
he came,
they heard him "up and down the road a hollerin' and a raisin' Cain."
And at last he had to come to the Hansons in despair, and bid Rufe,
"Jump
into your pants and shoes, and show me where this old mine is, anyway!"
Seeing that Ronalds had laid out so much money in the spot, and that a
beaten road
led right up to the bottom of the dump, I thought this a remarkable
example.
The sense of locality must be singularly in abeyance in the case of
Ronalds. That same evening, supper
comfortably over, Joe
Strong busy at work on a drawing of the dump and the opposite hills, we
were
all out on the platform together, sitting there, under the tented
heavens, with
the same sense of privacy as if we had been cabined in a parlour, when
the
sound of brisk footsteps came mounting up the path. We pricked our ears
at
this, for the tread seemed lighter and firmer than was usual with our
country
neighbours. And presently, sure enough, two town gentlemen, with cigars
and kid
gloves, came debouching past the house. They looked in that place like
a blasphemy. "Good evening," they
said. For none
of us had stirred; we all sat stiff with wonder. "Good evening," I
returned; and
then, to put them at their ease, "A stiff climb," I added. "Yes," replied the
leader; "but
we have to thank you for this path." I did not like the man's
tone. None of us liked
it. He did not seem embarrassed by the meeting, but threw us his
remarks like
favours, and strode magisterially by us towards the shaft and tunnel. Presently we heard his
voice raised to his companion.
"We drifted every sort of way, but couldn't strike the ledge." Then
again: "It pinched out here." And once more: "Every miner that
ever worked upon it says there's bound to be a ledge somewhere." These were the snatches
of his talk that reached
us, and they had a damning significance. We, the lords of Silverado,
had come face
to face with our superior. It is the worst of all quaint and of all
cheap ways
of life that they bring us at last to the pinch of some humiliation. I
liked
well enough to be a squatter when there was none but Hanson by; before
Ronalds,
I will own, I somewhat quailed. I hastened to do him fealty, said I
gathered he
was the Squattee, and apologised. He threatened me with ejection, in a
manner grimly
pleasant — more pleasant to him, I fancy, than to me; and then he
passed off
into praises of the former state of Silverado. "It was the busiest
little
mining town you ever saw:" a population of between a thousand and
fifteen hundred
souls, the engine in full blast, the mill newly erected; nothing going
but
champagne. and hope the order of the day. Ninety thousand dollars came
out; a
hundred and forty thousand were put in, making a net loss of fifty
thousand. The
last days, I gathered, the days of John Stanley, were not so bright;
the
champagne had ceased to flow, the population was already moving
elsewhere, and Silverado
had begun to wither in the branch before it was cut at the root. The
last shot
that was fired knocked over the stove chimney, and made that hole in
the roof
of our barrack, through which the sun was wont to visit slug-a-beds
towards
afternoon. A noisy last shot, to inaugurate the days of silence. Throughout this
interview, my conscience was
a good deal exercised; and I was moved to throw myself on my knees and
own the
intended treachery. But then I had Hanson to consider. I was in much
the same
position as Old Rowley, that royal humourist, whom "the rogue had taken
into his confidence." And again, here was Ronalds on the spot. He must
know
the day of the month as well as Hanson and I. If a broad hint were
necessary,
he had the broadest in the world. For a large board had been nailed by
the
crown prince on the very front of our house, between the door and
window,
painted in cinnabar — the pigment of the country — with doggrel rhymes
and conterminous
pictures, and announcing, in terms unnecessarily figurative, that the
trick was
already played, the claim already jumped, and Master Sam the legitimate
successor of Mr. Ronalds. But no, nothing could save that man; quem deus vult perdere, prius dementat. As
he came so he went, and left his rights depending. Late at night, by
Silverado reckoning, and after
we were all abed, Mrs. Hanson returned to give us the newest of her
news. It
was like a scene in a ship's steerage: all of us abed in our different
tiers,
the single candle struggling with the darkness, and this plump,
handsome woman,
seated on an upturned valise beside the bunks, talking and showing her
fine
teeth, and laughing till the rafters rang. Any ship, to be sure, with a
hundredth part as many holes in it as our barrack, must long ago have
gone to her
last port. Up to that time I had always imagined Mrs. Hanson's
loquacity to be
mere incontinence, that she said what was uppermost for the pleasure of
speaking, and laughed and laughed again as a kind of musical
accompaniment. But
I now found there was an art in it. I found it less communicative than
silence
itself. I wished to know why Ronalds had come; how he had found his way
without
Rufe; and why, being on the spot, he had not refreshed his title. She
talked
interminably on, but her replies were never answers. She fled under a
cloud of
words; and when I had made sure that she was purposely eluding me, I
dropped
the subject in my turn, and let her rattle where she would. She had come to tell us
that, instead of
waiting for Tuesday, the claim was to be jumped on the morrow. How? If
the time
were not out, it was impossible. Why? If Ronalds had come and gone, and
done
nothing, there was the less cause for hurry. But again I could reach no
satisfaction. The claim was to be jumped next morning, that was all
that she would
condescend upon. And yet it was not jumped
the next morning, nor
yet the next, and a whole week had come and gone before we heard more
of this
exploit. That day week, however, a day of great heat, Hanson, with a
little
roll of paper in his hand, and the eternal pipe alight; Breedlove, his
large,
dull friend, to act, I suppose, as witness; Mrs. Hanson, in her Sunday
best; and
all the children, from the oldest to the youngest; — arrived in a
procession,
tailing one behind another up the path. Caliban was absent, but he had
been
chary of his friendly visits since the row; and with that exception,
the whole family
was gathered together as for a marriage or a christening. Strong was
sitting at
work, in the shade of the dwarf madronas near the forge; and they
planted
themselves about him in a circle, one on a stone, another on the waggon
rails,
a third on a piece of plank. Gradually the children stole away up the
canyon to
where there was another chute, somewhat smaller than the one across the
dump; and
down this chute, for the rest of the afternoon, they poured one
avalanche of
stones after another, waking the echoes of the glen. Meantime we elders
sat
together on the platform, Hanson and his friend smoking in silence like
Indian
sachems, Mrs. Hanson rattling on as usual with an adroit volubility,
saying
nothing, but keeping the party at their ease like a courtly hostess. Not a word occurred about
the business of the
day. Once, twice, and thrice I tried to slide the subject in, but was
discouraged by the stoic apathy of Rufe, and beaten down before the
pouring
verbiage of his wife. There is nothing of the Indian brave about me,
and I began
to grill with impatience. At last, like a highway robber, I cornered
Hanson,
and bade him stand and deliver his business. Thereupon he gravely rose,
as
though to hint that this was not a proper place, nor the subject one
suitable for
squaws, and I, following his example, led him up the plank into our
barrack.
There he bestowed himself on a box, and unrolled his papers with
fastidious
deliberation. There were two sheets of note-paper, and an old mining
notice,
dated May 30th, 1879, part print, part manuscript, and the latter much
obliterated by the rains. It was by this identical piece of paper that
the mine
had been held last year. For thirteen months it had endured the weather
and the
change of seasons on a cairn behind the shoulder of the canyon; and it
was now
my business, spreading it before me on the table, and sitting on a
valise, to
copy its terms, with some necessary changes, twice over on the two
sheets of
note-paper. One was then to be placed on the same cairn — a "mound of
rocks" the notice put it; and the other to be lodged for registration. Rufe watched me, silently
smoking, till I came
to the place for the locator's name at the end of the first copy; and
when I
proposed that he should sign, I thought I saw a scare in his eye. "I
don't
think that'll be necessary," he said slowly; "just you write it
down." Perhaps this mighty hunter, who was the most active member of
the
local school board, could not write. There would be nothing strange in
that. The
constable of Calistoga is. and has been for years, a bed-ridden man,
and, if I
remember rightly, blind. He had more need of the emoluments than
another, it
was explained; and it was easy for him to "deputize," with a strong
accent
on the last. So friendly and so free are popular institutions. When I had done my
scrivening, Hanson strolled
out, and addressed Breedlove, "Will you step up here a bit?" and
after they had disappeared a little while into the chaparral and
madrona
thicket, they came back again, minus a notice, and the deed was done.
The claim
was jumped; a tract of mountain-side, fifteen hundred feet long by six
hundred
wide, with all the earth's precious bowels, had passed from Ronalds to
Hanson,
and, in the passage, changed its name from the "Mammoth" to the
"Calistoga." I had tried to get Rufe to call it after his wife, after
himself, and after Garfield, the Republican Presidential candidate of
the hour
— since then elected, and, alas! dead — but all was in vain. The claim
had once
been called the Calistoga before, and he seemed to feel safety in
returning to
that. And so the history of that mine became once more plunged in darkness, lit only by some monster pyrotechnical displays of gossip. And perhaps the most curious feature of the whole matter is this: that we should have dwelt in this quiet corner of the mountains, with not a dozen neighbours, and yet struggled all the while, like desperate swimmers, in this sea of falsities and contradictions. Wherever a man is, there will be a lie. |