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, boot-jacks, old boots, old tavern bills, and
the very beds that we inherited from bygone miners, put in human
touches and realized 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, amalgated, 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 ran 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 sun-bonnet. 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
clump, 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 debauching 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 minor 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 apologized. 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
contumelious 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 "depytize," 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.
