In a short time Houston had become perfectly familiar with his new
surroundings. He was thoroughly at home in the underground workings,
readily finding his way in the labyrinth of shafts, tunnels and
cross-cuts extending for miles in all directions, and connecting the
various mining claims one with another.
He knew the name and face of nearly every man employed in the various
shifts, and by his keen perception and insight, was able to form a
very correct estimate of their character and standing in that little
community. Though no words had been exchanged between himself and Jack
beyond those of the most commonplace greetings, yet his respect for
the man, and confidence in him, increased with each day, and was
plainly indicated by his manner toward him whenever they met.
As he watched the men, in his frequent rounds through the mines,
most of their faces were to him as an open book, on some of whose
pages he read histories of misfortune and loss, or crime and shame in
the past, and on others, of eager ambitions and bright hopes for the
future. There were men with gray hair and bowed forms, whose dull
eyes and listless step told of hopeless, irretrievable loss; men
of intelligence and ability whose recklessness or whose despondency
told of some living sorrow, worse than death; there were some whose
stealthy, shrinking gait and watchful, suspicious glance bespoke
some crime, unknown to their fellows, but which to themselves seemed
ever present, suspended, like the sword of Damocles, above their
heads.
But even to Houston, Jack remained a mystery, and as he noted the
powerful, athletic form, the profile of patrician beauty, perfect as
though chiseled in marble, the hair and beard black and glossy as the
raven's wing, though touched with silver here and there, he found
himself unable to read the history of that life.
"There is a man," he soliloquized, "my equal, if not my superior, in
birth, in education, in intellectual ability; how came he here? What
has wrecked his life?"
But the dark, piercing eyes, turned on him for an instant, gave no
answer to his query.
As he and Morgan, their day's work completed, were returning to the
house, Houston made some inquiries regarding the men, and from the
information given by Morgan concerning some of them, found his own
judgment of them correct.
"And who is the man called 'Jack,' who works with the Irishman?"
"Heaven knows, I don't, nor nobody else," replied Morgan; "he came
here about six or seven years ago, I guess, at least; he was here when
I came, and was considered an expert then. He never would have
anything to say to the other men, and always lived by himself till the
Irishman came; he was another queer sort of duck and was a first-class
miner, too, so him and Jack has worked together and lived together
ever since, but Jack is boss."
"Are they the only miners living by themselves?" asked Houston.
"The only single men; there's six or seven of 'em that are married and
have families, like Maverick; they have very good shacks, furnished by
the company, but all the single men, excepting them two, live at the
quarters. By the way, have you ever been down to the quarters?"
"No," replied Houston, "but I should like very well to visit them."
"All right, we'll go to-night if you like; I go down there myself once
in a while and listen to their stories; they've most of 'em had some
queer experiences, and they can spin as many yarns as a lot of
sailors, any time."
Later in the evening, Houston, having excused himself to the ladies in
general, and Miss Gladden in particular, accompanied by Morgan, was on
his way to the miners' quarters. The latter were situated but a short
distance from the office, on the road to the mines, and consisted of
two boarding houses and four bunk houses. Farther down the road were
the stables for the horses used in hauling supplies; also blacksmith
and carpenter shops, and a storehouse.
A rather novel scene presented itself to Houston as he approached.
Scattered about on the ground, and loafing in the door-ways in all
attitudes and positions, were over a hundred men, of various ages,
classes and nationalities, but principally Cornishmen, or, in
western vernacular, "Cousin Jacks." Many of them were strangers to
him, being employed in other mines than those with which he was
familiar, but among them were many of his own men. From the
door-way of one of the bunk houses came the strains of a violin,
while in another, a concertina shrieked and groaned, and from all
directions came the sound of ribald songs, coarse jests and
boisterous laughter. Here and there were groups of men engaged in
playing poker or seven-up, where little piles of silver and gold
were rapidly changing hands, to the accompaniment of muttered oaths.
At one side, Maverick and a few kindred spirits seemed trying to
outrival one another in profanity and obscenity, while at some
distance from them, was a large company of the better class of
men, some lounging against trees and rocks, some sitting or lying
at full length on the ground, but all listening with unmistakable
interest, to a man, gray and grizzled, with a weather-beaten but
kindly face, who evidently was entertaining the crowd with tales of
his own early life.
As Houston and Morgan approached, the speaker stopped; some of the men
half rose from their recumbent positions out of respect for the "new
boss," and all eyed him rather curiously, though not unkindly. Houston
recognized many of his own men among them, and greeted them with a
pleasant "Good evening, boys."
"Hullo, Billy," said Morgan, addressing the old miner, "what do you
know to-night?" then noting that he was watching Houston with a half
smile on his rugged face, he added, "Thought I'd bring the boss down
to see you and the rest of the boys to-night."
"Good evenin' boss," responded the old fellow, while a merry smile
twinkled in his eyes, "I expect this is your first visit to a reg'lar,
genuwine minin' camp?"
"My first, perhaps, but not my last," said Houston, with a winning
smile.
"That's right," said the old man approvingly, as he proceeded to
refill his pipe; "I've been a watchin' you, off and on, down there at
the mines, bein' as I'd heerd you was a tenderfoot, and I must say
you've took a holt as if you was an old hand at the job."
"Oh, yes," Houston replied, "with a little determination, a person can
pick up anything of that kind easily. I think, with a little practice,
I could make a pretty successful miner; it would require grit and
stick-to-it-ativeness, that's all."
"'Grit and stick-to-it-ativeness,' that's good," said the old miner,
highly pleased, "well, you seem to have plenty of 'em both, and plenty
of good muscle, too," with an admiring glance at Houston's fine,
athletic form.
"See here, Billy," said Houston pleasantly, after chatting a few
moments, "when we came, it looked very much as though you were telling
stories to the crowd here, and the boys all seemed very much
interested; now we want you to go on with your story, we would enjoy
it as much as the rest."
"Let me see," said Billy, "I don't remember just where I was, but I
guess I'd finished as you come up."
"Never mind, you can start another," said Houston.
"Yes, Billy, give us another," chimed in the boys.
"Go ahead, pardner," added Morgan, "spin us a yarn, that's what we
came for."
"I was only tellin' the boys about the old days when I came out to the
mines, and for the first few years after," Billy began.
"Those must have been interesting times," said Houston.
"Int'restin'? I should say so! You fellows don't know nothin' about
minin' compared to them days; I tell you, things was lively then. I
was there at Leadville when it was opened up, and you couldn't get
anybody to look at you without payin' 'em a good, round sum for it;
couldn't get a place to roll yourself in your blanket and lie on the
floor short of five or ten dollars; folks bought dry goods boxes and
lived in 'em. Then I was down here when they opened up the Big Bonanza
mine, in Diamond gulch, not far from Silver City. I tell you boys,
them was high old times, everything was scarce and prices was
high,--flour was a hundred dollars a sack, and potatoes seventy-five
dollars a bushel,--but money was plenty,--or gold dust,--we didn't
have no money, everything was paid for in gold dust. 'Twas pretty
tough in them days, too, everybody went armed to the teeth, and guns
and knives was used pretty free."
"Was that in the days of the vigilantes?" asked Houston.
"Yes, they come along soon after, they had to. There was desperate
characters here, but the vigilantes made short work of 'em, they
didn't even give 'em time to say their prayers. I tell you, the
gambling houses and the dance halls, and all them places was lively in
them days. There wasn't many words over a game, if any quarrels come
up, they was settled pretty quick with the revolver or bowie knife."
"There must have been some high stakes played in those days," Houston
remarked.
"High? well, yes, rather; I've seen men sit down to a game worth
anywhere from fifty to two or three hundred thousand, and get up
without a cent in the world."
The old man paused to relight his pipe, and having puffed reflectively
for a few moments, settled himself with the air of a man who has a
long story to tell, and the surrounding miners evidently so understood
it, for they shifted their positions accordingly, and prepared to
listen.
"Speakin' of gamblin'," he began, "puts me in mind of something that
happened among the camps on the other side of the range, nigh onto
fifteen years ago. A gang of us boys was in Dandy Jim's gambling hall
one night. The place was crowded, I remember, and we was all tryin' to
make our fortunes on the high card. Some of us was dead broke, but
them that hadn't the stuff borrowed from them that had, sure of better
luck next time. They was all so deep in the game that none of 'em
noticed a seedy-lookin' chap who come in, kinder quiet like, and set
down to the faro table and began to play. I guess I was the only one
who noticed him, and at first, I couldn't make him out, but after a
bit, I remembered him as 'Unlucky Pete.' That man had a history. When
I first saw him, some eight or ten years before that night, he had
just come west with his wife, a pretty little woman, and had a good
team of horses and a new wagon. He was a reg'lar border character, and
whenever a new country was opened up for settlement, him and his wife
was the first on the ground, ready to make a run to secure a home.
Pete was prosperous, till one night, in a quarrel over a game of
cards, he killed his man, and from that time his luck changed. He
secured one or two good claims, but lost title to them; he lost his
horses, and as fast as he bought other horses, they died or was
stolen, and everything went against him. He wandered from one country
to another, but bad luck met him at every turn. The last I seen him
was some two years before; then him and his wife and two or three
babies was goin' over the country in an old, broken-down wagon. The
wheels was held together with wire and ropes, and the canvas top was
in rags and tatters; the horses was the poorest, skinniest creatures
you ever see, and him and his wife looked off the same piece.
"Well, somehow or 'nuther, I knew him that night, though he looked
harder than ever, and had an old slouched hat down over his face. He
looked like a man that was pushed pretty close to the wall, and had
got down to his last nickel. Well, he set down there to the table, and
threw a silver dollar on the high card; then pulled that old hat down
clean over his eyes, and never spoke, or looked one way or another.
The high card won, and the dealer paid the bet, and pushed the money
over to Pete, but he never stirred.
"Well, that high card kep' a winnin' till there was a big pile of
money there, but Pete, he never stirred, no more'n a stone. The
dealer, he got mad and begun to swear, but Pete didn't move.
"'Somebody wake that fool up,' says he, with an oath.
"A fellow sittin' next to Pete shook him, and then tore off his hat.
Well, boys, I'll never forget that sight, it makes me sort o' shiver
now, when I think of it; there set a dead man at the table before that
pile of gold.
"The dealer started to rake in that pile o' money, but about a dozen
revolvers was p'inted at him, and he decided not to be in too big a
hurry about it.
"'What's the use anyway?' says he, 'the man's dead and the money's no
good for him, and besides, nobody knows who he is.'
"'I do,' says I, jumpin' up.
"'And I,' says another fellow, 'the man just come into camp a day or
two ago, and his family's starvin'."
"Well, we bundled that money up pretty sudden, and a half a dozen of
us started to find the folks; we found 'em, too, but the wife was
dead, starved to death, and the children wouldn't have lasted much
longer. The oldest, a girl about eight years old, told that they had
nothin' to eat for two days, and her father found the dollar, and
started down to the store for food, but soon after he left the cabin,
the mother died.
"We buried Pete and his wife in one grave, and then with the pile of
money we got good homes for the children, and some of it was to be
used in givin' 'em a good eddication, and the last I heerd, they was
comin' on well. But I've never set down to a game sence, that I
haven't thought of the night I played faro, with a dead man at the
table."
At the conclusion of the old miner's story, a little suppressed thrill
of excitement ran through his audience. Morgan, who had seemed
restless and ill at ease, rose to go, and Houston, finding it much
later than he supposed, after a few pleasant words with the boys, bade
them good night, and hastened after Morgan, who was already sauntering
up the road a little way in advance.