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TRIP [40] from New York to the inter-mountain country of the west, with
the present railroad facilities of palatial Pullmans and dining cars,
is now an every-day affair. The traveler is surrounded by every comfort.
Vance Gilder was more than ever in love with the change, as the cars
rumbled on through dell and forest, across broad stretches of beautiful
valley country, and ever and anon rushing over an iron bridge that
spanned some beautiful stream of water, some of them calm and peaceful,
and others rushing madly along, breaking into white spray over rocky
ripples, and then hurrying on again as if they were running a race with
time.
As he approached the Rocky Mountain country, and for the first time in
his life gazed upon that mighty range of Nature’s towering masonry, he
was almost intoxicated with the new sights to be seen on the “crown of
the continent.”
Notwithstanding his enjoyment of the new and varied scenery, he was glad
enough to abandon the cars at Butte City, after four days and nights of
continuous riding.
Butte City is said to be, not only the greatest mining [41] camp in
Montana, but the greatest in the world. They boast of the many millions
that are brought to the light of day by the magic wand of the miner’s
pick. Vance found lodging at the Mercury Hotel, and early the next
morning, after breakfasting heartily, started for a walk.
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The town is built on a side-hill, gently rising from the depot grounds
westward to a very considerable elevation. He paused now and then to
inspect the architecture of some of the buildings, and then looked away
toward the smelter districts, at the black clouds of smoke which the
[42] chimneys were belching forth, and falling over the city like a veil
of mourning.
Presently he was accosted by an individual of grizzly beard and
good-matured countenance, who said: “Hello, pard; how d’ye do?
Sizin’ up these diggins’ be ye?”
As Vance eyed his questioner rather critically and acknowledged the
salutation, the fellow reached him a card which bore the name “Hank
Casey.” While Vance was glancing at the card, his new acquaintance
said:
“I reckon you be from down east? I come from thar a long time ago.
You’ll notice from my card that I’m in the real estate business;
also have some fine minin’ propositions.”
“Yes,” replied Vance, “I am from the east, but do not know as I
care to make any investments.”
“Well, now, look’ee? here, stranger. I ‘spect I might give you a
pinter or two that may not come amiss. This ‘ere town is chuck up full
of dead beats and black legs, who make it their business to run
every new feller in that comes from down east. Now Hank Casey do a
straight-for’ard, legitimate business—that’s me,” said he, as he
tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest and straightened himself
to his fullest height.
Vance was amused by this odd character, and determined to learn from
him what he could concerning Butte City and the claims made for it.
He therefore asked, “What population have you and what are your
resources?”
“Over fifty thousand people, above an’ below. You see, thar’s
several thousand of us in this town below ground, workin’ away with
shovel an’ pick. I reckon as how you’ll see a fair sample of our
miners if you’re on the [43] streets tonight. As for resources—why,
pardner, thar’s no end to ‘em. We took out mighty near forty million
dollars from our mines last year, an’ thar’s ore enough in sight
to keep on minin’ at the same rate for a hundred years to come. What
d’ye think o’ that?”
Vance replied that it certainly was a most extraordinary statement.
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“What other towns have you in this state,” asked Vance.
“None to speak of,” was the prompt reply. “Butte City is the
pertest town in any o’ these western diggings. Thar’s not another
town in Montana as can tech one side of us, for money, marbles, or
chalk. To be sure,” he went on, in a condescending tone, “we
have lots o’ towns in this ‘ere state, sech as they be; lots
o’ minin’ camps, but they are merely
blacksmith-shops-on-the-crossroads,’ compared with Butte City. D’ye
see that Corner lot over thar’. Five years ago I owned the ground
whar’ that buildin’ stands. I bought it for $300, held it just
thirteen months, and sold it for $4,000 spot cash.”
“Why that was an immense profit,” said Vance, with more interest
than he had yet manifested in Hank Casey’s description of Butte
City. Hank Casey smiled contentedly and expectorated an accumulation
of tobacco juice with a resounding “pit-tew” on the side walk, and
said: “You call that a good profit? Why, pardner, I bought stock in
the Blackbird mine at twelve cents a share when the company was fust
organized, and now its worth $300 a share and payin’ an immense
dividend monthly. That’s what I call a good investment; but as fer
that speck,” [44] said he, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the
corner lot, “that don’t amount to nothin’.”
“Do you know where Gold Bluff, Idaho, is?” asked Vance.
“I reckon I ought to know,” replied the boomer; “me an’ Steve
Gibbons were the fust prospectors in that ‘neck o’ the woods.’
Steve an’ I claim to own the Peacock, but old Rufus Grim, the biggest
scoundrel in Idaho yes, the biggest in this whole minin’ country
claims to own it, and has got possession, and I’ve learned, in this
western country ‘specially, that possession is not only nine points of
the law, but mighty near ten. Of course, a gold mine like the Peacock
is a mighty handy thing to have in the family, but as a general rule,
they’re mighty unsartin. Give me a silver or copper mine every
time.”
Vance assured his new-found acquaintance that he was under many
obligations for the information received, and said he hoped to meet him
again. Hank Casey, however, was not to be disposed of in this way,
and walked along with Vance. Presently he called his attention to some
vacant lots across the street.
“D’ye see them lots over thar? I can sell you one o’ them
fifty-foot lots at $3,500. an I’ll bet diamonds against peanuts
it’ll be a rich buy at $10,000 before two years. By the way, stranger,
what’s the matter with you takin a leetle ‘flyer’ in Butte City
dirt? Buy a few lots, stop here with us for six months, sell ‘em out
agin for 100 per cent, profit, an’ that’ll pay all the expenses of
your western trip. See? said he, touching Vance gently in the ribs with
his elbow.
“Yes; I see,” said Vance, “I see very clearly, or would, [45] were
it not for the smoke. It smells like sulphur. Does it come from some of
your mills or smelters?”
“Now, look’ee here, pard, you’re just like every other
down-easter. They’re always kickin’ ‘bout this smoke.
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Now, let me tell you; if we didn’t have that ‘ar smoke we wouldn’t
have any Butte City, and besides, it kills the bacteria, molecules,
an’ all that sort o thing. It’s mighty healthy here, I can tell you,
an’ a mighty pert town into the bargain.”
Vance coughed immoderately, but Hank Casey who was acclimated, assured
him that he was at that moment breathing the healthiest air that ever
his lungs were filled with.
In the course of their walk, the boomer kept up a constant conversation,
explaining different points of interest, pointing out the different
mining properties in sight and telling their names, until Vance felt
that he had been very fortunate in falling in with one so conversant
with Butte City. At parting, Vance bade his new-found friend good day,
and promised to call at his office before leaving the city.
When he returned to the hotel, he commenced his first letter to the
Banner, but it was not finished until late that night. When it appeared
in the great New York journal it surprised, in point of brilliancy and
interest, even his warmest friends. His descriptions were so vivid
and lifelike, and his characters so droll, and withal teeming with
information, that a score of letters came to the managing editor,
assuring him of the great pleasure and profit they had experienced in
its perusal. Of course, Vance knew [46] nothing of this at the time,
but devoted himself with unceasing diligence in searching out reliable
information, and then training it into weekly letters.
Butte City began to impress him as a place of more importance than he
had at first thought. He learned that almost one million of dollars was
paid out monthly to the miners alone, and they, as a class, are “hail
fellows well met,” who believe in the doctrine of keeping money in
constant circulation.
He noticed in many of the mercantile houses that when the day clerks
went off duty at six o’clock in the evening, another set of clerks
came on, and the shops and stores, by the aid of brilliant electric
lights, continued business twenty-four hours out of the day the year
around.
Vance frequently thought of his conversation with the managing editor,
and what he had said about western towns and the over-enthusiastic town
boomer. In Hank Casey he felt he had found a typical character
that fully came up to all the managing editor had inferred, and had
frequently used him as an inspiration, but was becoming more and more
convinced that Butte City was one of those solid, substantial places
which the managing editor had classed as exceptions to the rule.