CHAPTER LVIII.

THE PARADISE OF BOGUS MINERS.

In the early days the roving, prospecting miners who swarmed the country were given to tricks of all kinds. Not being able to “salt” quartz veins as easily as they had salted the placer-mines Of California, where they frequently planted gold in the gravel, to the taking in and undoing of Chinamen and greenhorns, they often showed rich specimens of ore obtained from mines on the Comstock, and, pretending that they were obtained in some wild region in distant mountains, soon had about them men of capital from San Francisco and other cities, who were only too glad to accommodate them with loans of from $20 to $50 or $100.

These men were always about to return to the place wherein was situated their “big finds,” but were able to find no end of excuses for not going at once. They must have money with which to pay up their landlords before leaving; they must have money with which to procure a proper outfit, and when this had been given they pretended to have discovered that they were being watched—that there were parties dogging them day and night for the purpose of following them out into the mountains and crowding in and gobbling up the lion’s share of the “big thing” discovered.

[Illustration: SONG OF THE HONEST MINER.]

Thus these pretended prospectors, who probably never went outside of the town, would linger and delay, living on the fat of the land. They carried a memorandum book of considerable size, in which they could be induced, after much persuasion, to place the name of a man of means as one whose good fortune it would be to have a share in the wonderful silver discovery when the mine came to be duly located. Once he was thus fairly hooked, the man of money was never to refuse the jolly prospector any favor, was always to stand ready to hand out any sum that might be called for, from a four-bit piece to a double eagle; otherwise, the prospecting man might bring out that little stub of a pencil which he always carried in his vest pocket—with which he was to be seen figuring most industriously, as though trying to estimate the millions in his mine—and at a single sweep scratch out the name of the moneyed man and his chance for an interest in one of the biggest things of the age. This kind of game the pretended prospector would play till found out by all with whom he had dealings, when he would find it necessary to start business afresh in some other camp.

In the early days the Indians were supposed to know the whereabouts of many rich mines, and men were ready to follow wherever they might lead. A man who always had an eye open for the main chance, one day saw a Piute Indian strolling about Virginia City with a piece of very rich silver-ore in his hand. He at once secured that Indian’s undivided attention by enticing him out to a vacant lot.

Would Jim tell where he found the ore? Well, Jim might tell. Could he find the place again? O yes; Jim could find the place, sure. Was there more ore of the same kind in the place Jim had seen? Heap more. Finally, Jim agreed to point out the place in consideration of his receiving a big red blanket and two new shirts. Jim then led his white acquaintance up the side of the mountain to the dump of the Ophir Mining Company, and pointing out a great heap of ore said: “Me ketch um there. You see, heap plenty more all same. Injun man heap good, he no lie!” It was a fair transaction, still the white man was not happy.

The paradise of the roving class of miners for many years was the gold-fields of California. There was his “happy home,” the place where he roamed and howled—when he felt inclined to howl. Put him in a gulch where there was free water, water for the use of which in his mining operations he was obliged to pay no man a cent, and he asked nothing more—except that the distance to the nearest place where grub and grog could be obtained should not exceed six or eight miles; just a nice Sabbath day’s journey for him.

The real simon-pure, “honest miner” was pretty apt to “peter” (fail to pay, become unproductive) a short time before his mine had “petered,” as he laid by treasure with which to tramp away in search of fresh fields. In case of his becoming “dead broke,” he often had a hard time of it with the dealers in grub and “tarantula juice,” for if he had not “played them a string” some of his friends of a feather had, and in order to get trusted it was necessary for him to do big talking and show big prospects. It was not so in the “days of ’49,” for then all had money, or if they had not, no man was refused credit for provisions, as those who had no gold to-day were liable to have thousands to-morrow. In the days of the roving class to which the “honest miner” belongs, however, many of the diggings were of the kind spoken of by the Chinaman, who said that in his claim you “wash um one pan, catch um one color.”

When silver was discovered in Nevada, there was a grand rush of the roving miners of California to the Comstock range, but they did not like the hard work requisite to insure success in quartz-mining, and it was not long before the majority of them made their way back to their old haunts in the foothills of California, where they could find patches of ground in which to use their rockers and sluices. While they remained in Nevada, these were the fellows who carried memorandum books and talked of wonders in distant wilds, big things they had found, but had not yet fully appropriated.

I shall conclude my account of the honest miner by giving “A Tribute to the Goddess of Poverty,” by George Sand, and a parody on the “good goddess,” in which I shall try to do justice to the “honest miner.” The tribute to the “Goddess of poverty” runs as follows:

Paths sanded with gold, verdant heaths, ravens loved by the wild goats, great mountains crowned with stars, wandering torrents, impenetrable forests, let the good Goddess pass through—the Goddess of Poverty! Since the world existed, since men have been, she travels the world, she dwells among men; she travels singing, and she sings working—the Goddess, good Goddess of Poverty! Some men assembled to curse her. They found her too beautiful, too gay, too nimble, and too strong. ‘Pluck out her wings,’ said they; ‘chain her, bruise her with blows, that she may perish—the Goddess of Poverty!’

They have chained the good Goddess; they have beaten and persecuted her; but they cannot disgrace her. She has taken refuge in the soul of poets, in the soul of peasants, in the soul of martyrs, in the soul of saints—the good Goddess, the Goddess of Poverty! She has walked more than the Wandering Jew; she has travelled more than the swallows; she is older than the egg of the wren: she has multiplied more upon the earth than strawberries in Bohemian forests—the Goddess, the good Goddess of Poverty! She always makes the grandest and most beautiful things that we see upon earth; it is she who has cultivated the fields, and pruned the trees; it is she who tends the fields, singing the most beautiful airs; it is she who sees the first peep of dawn, and receives the last smile of evening—the good Goddess of Poverty! It is she who carries the sabre and gun; who makes war and conquest; it is she who collects the dead, tends the wounded, and hides the conquered—the Goddess, the good Goddess of Poverty!

Thy children will cease, one day, to carry the world on their shoulders; they will be recompensed for their labor and toil. The time approaches when there will be neither rich nor poor; when all men shall consume the fruits of the earth, and equally enjoy the gifts of God. But thou wilt not be forgotten in their hymns—oh, good Goddess of Poverty!

TRIBUTE TO THE “HONEST MINER:”

Two-bits to the pan on the bed-rock, bed-rock pitching, nuggets loved by the dead-broke, great chunks of gold in the ground-sluice, fine dust in the boxes, oceans of free water, hardest granite rim-rock, let the Honest Miner pass through—the bully Honest Miner!

Since “indications” have existed, since miners have been, he tramps the mountains, he dwells in brush-shanties, he packs his blankets, he whistles as he works his rocker—the Honest Miner, the bully Honest Miner! The grub dealers assembled to curse him. They found him on his muscle, too strong, too much sinew, too handy with his six-shooter.

“Seize him by the coat-tails,” said they; “roll him in the mud, let into him with pick-handles, that he may be knocked into a cocked-hat, that he may kick the bucket—the Honest Miner!”

They have kicked the bully Miner; they have ducked him in the ditch, but they can’t make him pungle. He has fallen back on his “dig,” swears by the soul of a beggar, by the soul of a Chinaman, by the soul of a Digger, by the soul of a nigger he has nary red—the Honest Miner, the bully Honest Miner! He has out-packed the Dutch peddler; he has travelled more than a candidate for Congress; he is older than Washoe butter; he is younger than the beef; he has drunk more cocktails than there are shares on the Comstock—the Honest Miner, the bully Honest miner!

He it is that makes it hot for the free-lunch tables; it is he that bucks at _monte_; plays draw-poker; fights the tiger; patronizes the Hurdies; sings like a “Washoe canary;” it is he who sees the first peep of dawn—through the bottom of a tumbler—through the same cocks his eye on the last smile of evening—the bully Honest Miner! It is he who carries the pick, pan, and shovel, who digs about croppings, who picks up “indications,” pounds them in a mortar, and “salts” the “prospect”—the Honest Miner, the bully Honest Miner! Thou wilt, one day, cease to carry sacks of “specimens” on thy shoulders; thou’lt go into thy last “prospect hole;” six feet will be the extent of thy last claim on earth; the stakes bearing thy last “notice” will be no further apart—six feet only; but six feet is a big “interest” in the “Eternal lead,” if properly “recorded;” the “pay-streak” there is broad, the bullion pure—no base metal. Every miner claiming on this lead shall find pay, even unto the farthest “extension.” Honest Miner, we shall think of thee as we halt and read thy last “notice.” So long as thou art remembered, thou shalt not be forgotten—oh, bully, Bully Honest Miner!

[Illustration]