We built our cabin high on the slopes of the Sangre de Christo range,
overlooking the broad, level San Luis Valley, in Colorado. At the rear
of the cabin rose a towering cliff or rather a huge slab of rock
standing edgewise more than two hundred feet high, apparently the
upheaval of some mighty convulsion of nature in ages gone. Near the
base of this cliff flowed a clear crystal spring.
Some hundred yards west of the cabin was the mouth of a tunnel into
which we had drifted with pick, shovel and giant powder, a distance of
300 feet in five months of hard toil. A trail led from the tunnel to
the cabin along the mountain side, which was thickly studded with tall
pines. Another trail led down the mountain slopes in a winding way to
the valley, almost a mile below. Above, reaching far into the blue
dome of the sky, rose the peaks of the snow-capped Sangre de Christo,
glistening in the morning sunlight, which threw gaunt, fantastic
shadows in cañon and deep ravine.
It was a wild, weird scene, where man, in strength and vigor, seems to
imbibe a portion of the divine essence that lives, and moves, and has
its being in the vast solitudes.
We struck pay rock at the first thirty feet of tunneling, so Amos'
assay showed, and the rock had gradually increased in value, week by
week. Buchan would take samples of the ore every week or ten days and
walk a distance of twenty-five miles to Saguache, where old man Amos,
expert geologist and assayer, would for two dollars and fifty cents
make out a clean printed slip with figures in red ink, showing so
many ounces of lead, copper, silver and gold to the ton.
The ore had not yet reached a value which would pay to ship it, but
the increase of values was so steady, and Amos was so extravagantly
encouraging, that we were always in buoyant expectation of rich ore.
He would say, "You boys have a wonderful prospect. Keep right on with
your work; it is getting richer with every stroke of your pick and you
are likely to uncover a million dollar drift any day."
Buchan would bring the assay certificate back to the cabin, where we
would sit late by the light of the pine knots in the fire place and
talk of the golden millions which capitalists would yet gladly pay for
a half interest in the "Aberdeen."
That was the name Buchan had given the mine, after his home town in
Scotland, of which he always spoke with a fond tenderness.
Winter had come and we, John Buchan, Will Carson, and myself, had
chipped in almost our last dollar and brought a wagon load of flour,
bacon and canned goods from Saguache to the foot of the mountains,
then carried them on our backs to the cabin. We quit work on the mine
for ten days and chopped firewood, which we corded at the rear of our
house. All hands felt that we were as snugly housed for the winter as
the big grizzly bears in their lairs among the rocks.
Snow had been falling for several days and it lay deep on the mountain
slopes and in the wide expanse of the valley below. We had not had an
assay for two weeks and all were anxious for another report from Amos.
Buchan wanted his mail also, and he took a small bag of the rock and
tramped the twenty-five miles to Saguache. It was a three days' trip
wading through the unbroken snow drifts, and it was night when he
returned, weary, footsore and angry.
I can see him yet, tears trickling down his honest face, as he tried
to tell something about Amos. He spoke of "the scamp, the villain, and
robber," and then choked with rage. Like all Scotchmen, the more he
thought of the wrong done him, the angrier he became; he would be more
angry tomorrow and it would be the day after that his anger would
reach the climax, and begin to subside. This was not a peculiarity of
Buchan. It is a characteristic of the Scotch.
We made him a cup of coffee and seated him comfortably before the
fire. When he calmed down somewhat, he explained.
"The first thing I did the next morning after reaching Saguache, was
to eat breakfast, and then I took the samples of ore to Amos' assay
office. He was garrulous as usual, and said to come in two hours and
he would have the certificate of the assay ready for me. When I again
called he handed me the certificate and I paid him the usual two
dollars and fifty cents. It showed nine dollars and ninety cents to
the ton. The usual increase of ten per cent. over the last assay.
"I crossed over to the postoffice, and while waiting for my mail, I
noticed the snow standing ten inches high on the cap of the flue of
Amos' assay furnace. I thought, how in the deuce did he assay our ore
without melting the snow on the cap of the flue? The more I thought
about it the more I was mystified. I went across to his office and
said, 'Amos, I suppose you gave us the usual fire test on this ore?'
'Yep,' he answered. 'Then tell me,' I cried, 'how in the devil did you
make the fire test without melting the snow off the cap of your
furnace flue?' 'Too cold to melt,' he replied.
"Then I rushed past him into the back room. The furnace was cold and
the frost had gathered on the iron door. I don't suppose there had
been a fire in it for a week. I took Amos by the whiskers and told him
to own up that he had not made a fire test of our ore. Then he
acknowledged that he had been guessing at it all along."
"You don't mean there is a doubt about us having pay rock?" we yelled
in a chorus.
"All kinds of doubt," said Buchan. "I am told there is a suspicion
that Amos gives everybody an assay showing values, where there are no
values--this for the purpose of keeping up work in the district--and
to those who have found values, he gives them an assay showing
nothing. At the same time he gives Rayder, the Denver capitalist, a
tip and he buys up the property for a song, giving Amos a fat
commission for his part in the deal. The chances are that we have no
more gold in our rock than there is in that jug handle."
The news was astounding. We sat for a while by the fire like men
stricken dumb. There was no doubting Buchan's statement. Deception was
no part of his nature. He was nearly twenty-six years of age,
athletic, strong and quick of perception. He had seen much of the
world and knew men. No, there could be no doubt; he was not mistaken.
We were heartsick. Almost our last dollar had gone to pay for the
bogus assay. Our golden dream of months was vanishing. Carson broke
the silence.
"I will go to Saguache tomorrow. I shall pulverize that jug handle and
take it to Amos; he does not know me; I shall have him assay it, and
if he gives me gold values there will be trouble!"
I was awakened the next morning by the sound of a hammer. Carson was
pulverizing the jug handle. After a hasty breakfast, he buckled on his
cartridge belt with a Colt 44-six shooter in his holster, and was soon
wading through the snow-drifts down the trail towards Saguache. I
watched him through the window until he was lost to view.
The sun rose in a clear sky; the glistening peaks of the Sangre de
Christo shone white against a turquoise blue; clumps of snow melted
from the branches of the pines and made hollows in the smooth banks of
white where they fell.