IN THE SILVER MOON MINING CAMP
It was the close of a dark November day. Heavy mists hung over the gulch
and settled upon the mountain stream that ran between high banks at its
bottom, and upon the miners’ huts that dotted either side.
The men had returned from their work and many of them were seeking rest
and refreshment in the shed dignified with the name of saloon, where
they paid very high prices for very bad whisky, and won or lost money
with very grimy cards.
One excuse for them was this—the camp was a new one, far out of
civilization. It had been called into existence by the hue and cry of a
new and grand discovery of ore in a mine which the discoverers
christened the Silver Moon. It was formed mostly of men who had been
unsuccessful in other mines. And there was not a woman in it.
Three men sat on the ground in the rudest of rude stone huts, built up
irregularly of small fragments of rocks, and roofed with slender logs.
There was neither door, window nor chimney, but there was an opening in
front, protected by a buffalo hide—to keep the heat in, and there was a
hole in the roof to let the smoke out. The floor was the solid earth,
and the fire was built against the wall. There was scarcely any
furniture to be seen, only a heap of coarse blankets in one corner, and
an iron pot and a few tin cups and plates in another.
Judy’s well-ordered hut at Grizzly was a little palace compared to this
squalid shelter.
The three men sitting on the earth floor, before the fire, which
afforded the only light in the place, were unkempt, unwashed and
altogether about the roughest-looking savages since the prehistoric
ages. Yet they were three as different men as could be found anywhere.
The first was perhaps the very tallest man ever seen outside of a show,
grandly proportioned, with a fine head, fine face, clear, blue eyes, and
yellow hair that flowed to his shoulders, and a yellow beard that fell
to his bosom. He was clothed in a buckskin coat trimmed with fur, now
much the worse for wear, and buckskin leggings and buffalo-hide boots.
In a word, this Hercules was our old friend, Samson Longman.
The second was a medium-sized and elderly man, with a thin, red face,
red beard and a bald head. He was clothed in a coarse, gray shirt, duck
trousers, a nondescript jacket, and many wrappings of sackcloth and sage
grass around his feet and ankles, by way of boots. He was our old
acquaintance, Andrew Quin.
The third was a slight yet muscular youth, with clear, bright
complexion, dark gray eyes and dark brown hair, a mocking nose and a
laughing mouth. He wore a coarse, red flannel shirt, duck trousers,
tucked into hide boots, a knit-woolen blouse, and battered felt hat. Of
course, he was young Michael Man.
All three of the men lived together like friends in this hut. This
evening they were all very grave, not to say gloomy.
Old Dandy Quin, sitting flat upon the ground and engaged in unwinding
the strips of sacking from his tired feet, was the first to break a
silence that had continued some time.
“I’m gettin’ tired of this yere,” he grumbled. “Here we’ve been more’n
two months working like mules, and never got a gleam o’ this yere
moonlight. It’s moon-calves we are, all on us. Ef it hadn’t been for
Longman and his gun we’d ’a’ starved! that’s what we would—’a’ starved!
We never had no luck nowhere! Leastways, I never had! I’ve been nigh
twenty years slaving in the mines, digging in the bowels of the yeth,
working hard and living harder, and running like a luny after a
jack-o’-lantern, from one grand discov’ry to another, but never got no
more but hard work and harder living out of any on ’em, and now I’m
sixty years old come next Martinmas, and I’m gettin’ tired on it,” he
concluded, flinging his rags aside and caressing his poor feet.
“Dandy, ye poor ould craychur, haven’t ye pit a cint itself, nowhere?”
questioned Mike in a sympathetic tone.
“Oh, jest eleven hund’ed dollar in the savings bank at Sacramento, and
that I hev saved up, dollar be dollar, in the last twenty years,
a-working hard an’ the—Regiment hard, and a-starving and a-stinting of
meself to do it! And since here we have come to this Silver Moon Mine it
hev been all loss and no gain! And as I said before, we’d ’a’ starved to
death ef it hadn’t been for Longman and his gun. And now he is going
back on us!” concluded Dandy in an injured tone and with a look of
reproach at the giant.
“I should be sorry to do that,” said Longman, stroking his long, yellow
beard. “But, Dandy, why won’t you go with me? I will gladly take you.
You are alone here and growing old. Have you no natural longings to see
your native country? Come! come along with me!”
“Why can’t you stay here? How do you know but to-morrow the stroke of a
pick may strike a vein of solid silver running down to the very middle
of the earth?” demanded Dandy.
“Ah, that’s it! Delusive hope has been the will-o’-the-wisp that has led
you on from post to pillar for twenty years of unsuccess.”
“Well, after working twenty years for almost nothing, you wouldn’t have
a man miss the chance of turning up a fortune with the very next stroke
of his pick—a fortune that would pay him for all he has suffered—would
you?”
“No, certainly not, if such luck were probable. But, Dandy, my friend,
your pick has never struck a vein, and I think it never will. Be
sensible. Draw your money from the savings bank, and come home to
England with me. That sum will be a fortune to you in England, and set
you up in any light business you may like; or buy you a small annuity,
sufficient for your comforts for the rest of your life. Think of it,
Dandy,” said Longman, with kindly interest in the lonely man.
“What makes you so hot-foot all of a sudden to go back to England?”
demanded Dandy. “A great, strapping, very strapping young fellow like
you to leave the grand field of enterprise to go back to England?”
Longman sighed and asked in his turn:
“What brought you here, Dandy?”
“Well, I s’pose it was the goold.”
“Ay, man, the gold—the gold fever. I have nothing to say against it,
because it has, on the whole, enriched and blessed the world; or, at
least, I hope and believe so. But you, to come out here to the gold
country at forty years of age, and to spend twenty years of life as hard
as the life of a convict, in the pursuit of an ignis-fatuus that always
eluded you, still under the delusion that the next stroke of your pick
may discover a vein, is to have lost so much of your life! Think of what
I have said, Dandy, and redeem and enjoy the rest.”
“I’ll think of it, Maister Longman. But ye hevn’t answered my question.
What brought yerself out? Not the goold fever, I’ll be bound. I hev
never seed ye handle a pick or shool.”
“No, not the gold fever. I was never fond of digging or delving, or any
sort of hard work. That was my ruin, Dandy,” said Longman with a deep
sigh.
“Ruin!” exclaimed old Andrew, looking at the speaker from head to foot.
“Well, then, ye are the foinest spacimin of a well-presarved ruin as
ever I seed in my loife.”
“My hatred of steady work made me an outcast from my home and an exile
from my country, Dandy,” gravely replied the hunter.
“A great, tall, strong fellow like you to be lazy!” exclaimed Dandy.
“No, not lazy; but averse to steady, hard, confining work,” said
Longman.
“An’ for that same did the feyther of ye turn ye adrift, me poor Sam?”
inquired Mike, striking into the talk.
“No, not my father—he was dead; but my mother did.”
“Your mither! Hivenly mither av us all!” exclaimed Mike, stupidly
staring at the hunter.
“I deserved it, Michael,” said the hunter.
“Och, thin, tell us all and about it, Sam, dear,” said Mike
sympathetically.
And Longman briefly told his little story.
“You see, my father was a small farmer at Chuxton, in the North Riding
of Yorkshire. I do not remember him, though I hope some day to make his
acquaintance in the upper world. He left this one when I was a very
young child—the first and only child,” he began.
“‘The only son of his mother, and she a widow?’ Ye’ll be looked after,
Sam, be the Lord Himsilf, or ilse all the howly fathers have taiched me
is not true,” put in Mike.
“Our neighbors used to say that my mother spoiled me. I have often heard
them say it to her before my face when I was a bairn.”
“And, no doobt, they telled the truth,” exclaimed Dandy.
“And what would the mither say to that?” inquired Mike.
“She would only draw me to her side and kiss me, to comfort me for the
mortification of hearing such words. But you were right, Dandy. The
neighbors did tell the truth. My poor, widowed young mother did spoil
her only child in her excessive fondness for him.”
“Well, it was naterel,” admitted Dandy.
“I grew up a very idle and headstrong boy, fonder of consorting with
gamekeepers, and even with poachers, than of working on our farm. I
think if I could have been taken on as an assistant by some gamekeeper,
who would have given me plenty to do among guns and game, I might have
been contented to stay at home; but I could get no such place. Besides,
my work was badly wanted on the farm. We were not able to hire laborers.
My mother, myself and one boy were expected to do everything; but I
neglected my part,” said Longman with a deep sigh.
No one made any reply.
“Mother bore with me very patiently for all the years I was growing; but
by the time I was twenty years old, and as strong and tall for that age
as if I had been twenty-five instead, and when the farm had been growing
from bad to worse for years, my poor mother frequently lost her temper
and scolded me—scolded me, a man, whom she had never scolded as a boy.”
“And, faith, ye desarved it, hinny,” said Dandy.
“Yes, I know I did. But one thing I can remember with satisfaction: bad
as I was, I never gave my mother what she would have called ‘the back
answer.’ I never in my life spoke an undutiful word to my mother.”
“Good for ye, Sam!” exclaimed Mike.
“When her words were very sharp and bitter, and I could stand them no
longer, I used to take my hat and walk out, and never come back till
night. And she—poor mother!—she would have a nice, hot supper waiting
for her prodigal son, with some extra luxury that she could ill afford
added to the feast.”
“An’ she was a good craychur, be that same token,” exclaimed Mike.
“Yes, she was good—very good—but I tired her beyond her patience. One
day the crisis came; the rent was behindhand; the bailiff was
threatening; there seemed danger of an eviction. Then my mother, in her
grief and anger, turned on me, said that if it had not been for my
worthlessness the farm would have been prosperous. She had said that so
often before that the words had lost all significance to me. But she
ended in saying this:
“‘If it hadn’t been for you, Samson, I shouldn’t ha’ been brought to
this disgrace and poverty. The cost of keeping you in idleness would
have paid an able-bodied farm laborer, who would have kept the place in
order. And now I tell you, if you can’t work here, you had better go and
find employment somewhere else to suit you.’”
“Faix, it was harrd on ye,” said Mike.
“It was, though she did not mean it. She was half crazy with the trouble
that I might have warded off from her. But, boys,” added Longman
solemnly, “her words fell on me stinging, burning, smarting, humiliating
as a lash laid on a naked back. Without a word I took up my hat and
walked out of the house, as I had often done before on other but less
bitter occasions; only this time I did not return. That was five years
ago. I have never seen my mother since.”
A solemn silence fell on the trio.
Presently old Dandy inquired:
“An’ where did ye go thin? Ye couldn’t hev hed mooch money in yer
pocket, if there was none to pay the rint.”
“No, I had not a shilling. I walked into Chuxton, sold my silver watch
for all it would bring, and then took a third-class ticket in the cheap
parliamentary train to London, shipped as an able-bodied seaman on board
the _Auro_, bound from St. Katherine’s Docks to the Golden Gate.”
“So it was for goold ye kem, after all,” said Dandy.
“Not at all. I never went near the mines in search of gold. I drew my
pay at ’Frisco, bought a couple of guns, a lot of ammunition, some
boots, and struck into the wilderness, where there was plenty of game
and no game laws.”
“An’ how hev ye thriven? Ye see, I niver knowed ye afore we met in the
woods last summer,” said Dandy.
“I have done well. I have been an industrious hunter. I have supplied
forts, post agencies, miners’ camps and military caravans with game. I
have saved more money than you have, Dandy; and I am going home to old
England—on a visit, mind you, not to stay—I wouldn’t stay there on any
terms, unless some one would make me head keeper on some estate where
there is plenty of game. Even that would be a poor substitute for the
grand, free life of the hunter in these wilds. But, Mike, why do you
look at me in that strange way?” Longman inquired of the Irish boy, who
had been sitting with his elbows on his knees, and his head held between
the palms of his hands, gazing silently and steadfastly into the face of
the hunter.
“Yis, I’m lookin’ at ye; I’m observin’ ye, Misther Longman. That’s so!
That’s a fact there’s no denyin’,” replied Mike, without removing his
gaze, which was becoming embarrassing, if not offensive, to the
good-natured hunter.
“But why? What’s the matter?” demanded Longman, shifting his position so
as to get out of the range of Mike’s eyes’ fire.
“What is the matther? Och! he ax what is the matther! Haven’t ye just
telled us how ye ran away fram yer poor withowed mither in her throuble,
an’ nivir wint back to ax how she windded through it? An’ ye ax me
what’s the matther?” exclaimed Mike with much excitement.
“But, Mike, she turned me out of doors.”
“No, she didn’t, Misther Longman. Not aven on your own showin’, which
was like to be in your own favor. She upbreeded you for idleness an’
neglect av dooty. An’ she was right! An’ she told yer if ye couldn’t
worruk on the farrm ye’d betther go and worruk somewheres else. An’ she
was right again, so she was.”
“Well, she was right; and I took her at her word and left to work
somewhere else.”
“Yis; an’ ye were the vagabond av the worruld for doin’ that same,
Misther Longman. Sure ye knew she nivir meant it, an’ yez leaving must
ha’ broke her heart, and yez her onliest one in the worruld.”
“What would you have had me to do, Mike?” inquired Longman very
patiently.
“What wad I hev had ye to do, is it? Why, to hev gone to worruk on the
farm and mindded yer ways from that hour, and hed the rint reddy on pay
day. That’s what I wud hev had ye to do, Misther Longman. I nivir hed a
mither; me and me twin swishter, Judy, was orphint childer—born so—and
nivir knowed a mither. But if I hed hed a mither, and she had got mad at
me and put me out av the front door, I’d ’a’ kem in at the back one. I
wud nivir hev deserted me own mither—nivir! But I nivir hed a mither,
and thim as has blessings nivir vally thim. I’m spaking me mind, Misther
Longman, and ye may dooble me oop and fling me over the bank and brek me
neck at the bottom of the gulch if ye like, for ye’re twice as big and
strong as meself, but I’m bound to spake me mind!” exclaimed the Irish
boy excitedly, digging his hands in his trousers pockets and
straightening himself up.
“Give me your hand, Mike. You are a brave, true young fellow, and all
that you say is right. Now, then, I must tell you that I have not
neglected my mother. I wrote to her before I sailed from London, telling
her where I was going. I also wrote to her from ’Frisco. I have written
to her from every available point where I have taken up my abode. But I
have never had an answer to any letter. She must have discarded me, and
perhaps married again, for she was a comely woman, only thirty-eight
years old, when I left her.”
“Did it nivir occur till ye that the letthers might be lost in a wild,
onsartin part uv the worruld like this?” inquired Mike.
“Yes, I have thought of that. And lately—I don’t know why—the thought
has grown upon me that my poor mother may be lonely and pining for her
prodigal son. I cannot get rid of that thought. It haunts me day and
night. That is why I have made up my mind to go home and make friends
with my mother.”
“As if she ivir was anything else but frinds wi’ ye, Sam, darlint!”
broke in Mike. He had stopped calling his comrade “Misther Longman.”
“I didn’t mean that exactly. I meant to make it all up with her, and to
her, if I could. To give her all the money I have saved, to make her
comfortable for life; and then come back to the free woods and the free
game.”
“Less ye could win to a keeper’s place in the owld counthry,” put in
Mike.
“Yes; but that’s a dream,” laughed Longman.
“Aven so, it’s a dhrame that may kem as thrue as me own swishter Judy’s
dhrame about her swateharrt that brought her all through the Black Woods
to find him at last.”
“I don’t in the least see how my dream—which was not even a dream, but a
passing thought of a bare possibility—can come true,” laughed Longman.
“Then I’ll tell you!” exclaimed Mike. “Ye know Ran, whose life ye
saved?”
“Why, of course!” exclaimed Longman in surprise at the vain question.
“Well, I only wanted to mind ye of him. Ye know he has kum into a great
estate?”
“Of course, I have heard that, too.”
“Very well, thin. He’s going to live on it. And if ye be in England, and
wanting av a keeper’s place, what more natural than Misther Hay should
pit you over his own kivvirs? You thet saved his life!”
“But, of course, the estate has a gamekeeper already.”
“Tare an’ ’ounds, man, and supposin’ an’ if it has! Misther Hay wud kape
two keepers before he’d lave you out’n the cold!” indignantly exclaimed
Mike.
“I know he would do all he possibly could for any of us. But it is time
enough to think of all that when we get to England,” said Longman.
“And are you bent on going, Mr. Longman?” inquired Andrew Quin.
“‘Bent on’ it, Dandy? I can’t help it. Something is drawing me. I feel
it all the time.”
“On a visit?”
“On a visit for the present.”
“Then I go with you, sir, and come back with you, if I feel like
it—though it is giving up the chance of a grand future.”
“But it is making reasonably sure of enjoying the rest of your days,
Dandy.”
“Well, mates, if you’ll both be laving, it’s meself that will go wid
you. The ould fort will be right on our road, and I can shtop there to
see me swishter Judy, and then I’ll go back to Grizzly. Grizzly ain’t no
great shakes; but for a steady-going old mining camp, that will nivir
promise to mek a man a millingnaire, nor yet starve him to death, but
sorter keep him a-going on fair hopes and fair profits, why, thin, give
me ould Grizzly!”
“Good for you, Mike, my bold boy! We shall be glad to have your company,
even as far as the fort, if no further,” said Longman, clapping his
young comrade on the shoulder.
“Well, now, boys,” said Andrew, “I hev hed twenty years’ experience in
these regions, where both of you are, relatively speaking, newcomers.
And I tell you, airly as it is in the season, there’s snow not far off,
and if so be we are bound to start, we had better be off to-morrow. What
do you say?”
“I’m riddy,” said Mike.
“And you, Mr. Longman?”
“I agree with you.
“‘Laugh those who can! Weep those who may!
Southward we march by break of day!’”