rocks ‘n’ dirt ‘n’ smoke ‘n; splinters shot up ’bout a mile an’ a half
into the air, an’ by George, right in the dead centre of it was old Tom
Quartz a goin’ end over end, an’ a snortin’ an’ a sneez’n’, an’ a clawin’
an’ a reachin’ for things like all possessed. But it warn’t no use, you
know, it warn’t no use. An’ that was the last we see of him for about
two minutes ‘n’ a half, an’ then all of a sudden it begin to rain rocks
and rubbage, an’ directly he come down ker-whop about ten foot off f’m
where we stood Well, I reckon he was p’raps the orneriest lookin’ beast
you ever see. One ear was sot back on his neck, ‘n’ his tail was stove
up, ‘n’ his eye-winkers was swinged off, ‘n’ he was all blacked up with
powder an’ smoke, an’ all sloppy with mud ‘n’ slush f’m one end to the
other.
Well sir, it warn’t no use to try to apologize–we couldn’t say a word.
He took a sort of a disgusted look at hisself, ‘n’ then he looked at us–
an’ it was just exactly the same as if he had said–‘Gents, may be you
think it’s smart to take advantage of a cat that ‘ain’t had no experience
of quartz minin’, but I think different’–an’ then he turned on his heel
‘n’ marched off home without ever saying another word.
“That was jest his style. An’ may be you won’t believe it, but after
that you never see a cat so prejudiced agin quartz mining as what he was.
An’ by an’ bye when he did get to goin’ down in the shaft agin, you’d ‘a
been astonished at his sagacity. The minute we’d tetch off a blast ‘n’
the fuse’d begin to sizzle, he’d give a look as much as to say: ‘Well,
I’ll have to git you to excuse me,’ an’ it was surpris’n’ the way he’d
shin out of that hole ‘n’ go f’r a tree. Sagacity? It ain’t no name for
it. ‘Twas inspiration!”
I said, “Well, Mr. Baker, his prejudice against quartz-mining was
remarkable, considering how he came by it. Couldn’t you ever cure him of
it?”
“Cure him! No! When Tom Quartz was sot once, he was always sot–and you
might a blowed him up as much as three million times ‘n’ you’d never a
broken him of his cussed prejudice agin quartz mining.”
The affection and the pride that lit up Baker’s face when he delivered
this tribute to the firmness of his humble friend of other days, will
always be a vivid memory with me.
At the end of two months we had never “struck” a pocket. We had panned
up and down the hillsides till they looked plowed like a field; we could
have put in a crop of grain, then, but there would have been no way to
get it to market. We got many good “prospects,” but when the gold gave
out in the pan and we dug down, hoping and longing, we found only
emptiness–the pocket that should have been there was as barren as our
own.–At last we shouldered our pans and shovels and struck out over the
hills to try new localities. We prospected around Angel’s Camp, in
Calaveras county, during three weeks, but had no success. Then we
wandered on foot among the mountains, sleeping under the trees at night,
for the weather was mild, but still we remained as centless as the last
rose of summer. That is a poor joke, but it is in pathetic harmony with
the circumstances, since we were so poor ourselves. In accordance with
the custom of the country, our door had always stood open and our board
welcome to tramping miners–they drifted along nearly every day, dumped
their paust shovels by the threshold and took “pot luck” with us–and now
on our own tramp we never found cold hospitality.
Our wanderings were wide and in many directions; and now I could give the
reader a vivid description of the Big Trees and the marvels of the Yo
Semite–but what has this reader done to me that I should persecute him?