THE COVE MINE.
It is six miles from Pine Tree Ranch to the Cove Mine. You go over
Lookout Point, from where El Capitan and the outline of the Yosemite
can be easily seen on a clear day, down along the winding upper ridge
of the Gulch, up again over the divide near Deer Spring and down along
the zigzag trail on the steep side of Big Bear Mountain, then down to
the very waters of the south fork of the Merced; just six miles to
where, in the depth of the canyon, lies Wright's Cove Mine. In all the
far-famed Sierras there can be no more picturesque spot. If one will
take the trouble to climb the almost perpendicular ridge that rises
two thousand feet behind the old tumble-down buildings, long, low
cook-houses and superintendent's vine-covered cottage, along that
narrow, half-destroyed trail that follows the rusty tracks and cogs
and cable of an old railroad, up to the first and then on further to
the second tunnel, where a few deserted ore-cars stand waiting the
trains that never come, on still higher to the narrow ridge that
separates the south fork from the north fork of the Merced River, he
is rewarded with a view worth a long trip to see.
Let him stand there at sunset in the early spring and he has seen a
view worthy of the land of the Jung Frau and Mt. Blanc. All around,
the white-topped peaks of the high Sierras; far away, the snow banner
waving over the Yosemite; to the left of him, far below, like a river
of gold, sending up hither a faint murmur as it rushes over giant
boulders and innumerable cataracts, the North Fork, hurrying from that
ice-bound gorge which is the wonder of the Sierras; to the right, on
the other side, dancing down from the far-off Big Trees, threading the
tangled jungles of the Gulch, coming out through the dark green forest
like a rim of molten silver, roaring down past the quaint little
mining settlement, which looks half hid in partly-melted snow banks
like some Swiss village, comes the south fork of the river,
disappearing behind the mountain on which one stands.
The rushing stream, whose music is like some far-off echo; the strange
deserted village; the narrow line of dark rails up the mountain-side
through the snow; the gloomy, cavernous tunnels; the setting sun in
the west gilding all with its transfiguring touch--these give a scene
worthy the brush of a master-artist, who has never yet found his way
over the Pine Mountain trail to the South Fork and Wright's Cove Mine.
It was just such a day in spring as this, as Job came whistling down
the trail, gun in hand, looking for deer-tracks, that he thought he
heard the report of a gun up in the second tunnel. He had often been
there before; had climbed the trail and the cog railroad, played
around and over the deserted buildings, and gone swimming off the iron
bridge where the torrent was deepest. Once he and Dolph Swartz, a
neighbor boy, had slept all night in the tool-house shed, waiting for
game, and had seen only what Dolph was sure was a ghost--so sure that
he hurried Job home at daybreak with a vow that he would never stay at
Wright's Cove another night.
Job knew the place well, yet on this spring day he stopped and looked
mystified. There it was again! Who could be in the second tunnel with
a gun? Was it the spirit of some poor forty-niner come back again? He
doubled his speed, slid down through the mud and slush, grasped a
sapling and leaped down the short cut, ran up the bank and rocky sides
of the roaring torrent, walked carefully over the slippery iron rails
of the old rusty bridge, and made his way up the steep Tunnel Trail.
Soon he was close to the tunnel, so far up that the river's noise was
lost behind him. He stopped and listened. Not a sound. Then clean and
strong the ring of a gun, and a dull echo in the dim cavern!
All kinds of thoughts rushed through Job's head. He was not a
superstitious boy, yet this was enough to make anybody feel queer--all
alone in that deserted wilderness, with the echo of a gun coming out
of the lonely mine, unworked for years and into which no human
footstep had penetrated since the day that old Wright shot himself in
the tunnel when he found that the mine which had paid big at first and
into which he had put all his income, was a failure. Job had heard the
boys tell that Indian Bill, the trapper, said he had seen the old
fellow's skeleton marching up and down with gun in hand, two hundred
feet down the tunnel, defending it against all intruders. Perhaps that
was the ghost now! Would he dare to go? His flesh crept at the
thought. He wished Shot was with him, or at least some living thing.
Again he heard the report. His courage rose. He would face the thing,
whatever it was.
Creeping up slowly and noiselessly, he reached the entrance to the
tunnel and looked in. All was as dark as the grave. A cold draft
rushed out over him. He could hear the drip, drip, of water from the
roof. At first he thought he saw something moving in the distance,
then he was not sure. He decided he would turn back; then curiosity
was too much for him; he began to whistle and walked boldly into the
darkness, followed the rotten ties, when, lo! he saw a flash of
light, heard a thundering report, and, involuntarily giving a yell,
started to run, when a familiar voice shouted:
"Job, Job, come here!"
He turned, and there loomed up before him, to his utter amazement, the
form of Andrew Malden.
The old man was evidently disconcerted and angry at being found, while
the boy was utterly dumfounded.
"Wait a minute, Job; I'll go home with you," said Malden, as he took
out the queerest charge Job had ever seen in a gun--a load of gold
dust, which he carefully rammed down the barrel, then, bidding Job
look out, fired into the rock.
"Why, what are you doing that for?" stammered the boy.
"Oh, salting the mine, just so it will keep," laughed Andrew Malden--a
strange, hoarse laugh. "But mind, Job, nobody needs to know I did it.
The mine will keep better if they don't."
As they passed out, Job noticed that the wall of the mine glittered in
a way he had never seen before. What did it all mean? He dared ask no
more questions of Andrew Malden. Almost in silence they climbed down
the old trail, edged across the bridge, and strode with a steady pace
up the long six miles over the Point to their home.
"What's 'salting a mine,' Tony?" asked Job of the black hostler one
day a week after.
"Doan' know, Marse Job, unless it's doctoring the critter so you can
make somebody believe it's worth a million, when it ain't worth a
rabbit's hind foot. Tony's up to better bizness than salting mines."
"Who owns the Cove Mine, Tony?"
"Why, Marse Malden, I 'spec," said the surprised negro.
That evening Job looked at his guardian with a queer feeling as they
sat down to supper, and that night he heard gun-shots in his dreams,
and awoke with a shiver and waited for something to happen. He was
conscious of impending trouble. Something was wrong.
* * * * *
It had been a hard winter in Grizzly county, and throughout the whole
country, for that matter; a hard winter, following a fatal summer
which closed with crops a failure on the plains, the stunted grain
fields uncut, and the whole country paralyzed. The cities were full of
men out of work. The demand for lumber had fallen off, and the Pine
Mountain Mill was idle over half the time. The pessimism that filled
the air had reached Andrew Malden, and he sat by the fire all winter
nursing it. If he could sell the Cove Mine--but what was there to
sell? And he gave it up as a futile project. Then there came news of a
rich strike of gold in Shasta county, and a little later in the far
south the deserts of the Mojave were found to glitter. A perfect
epidemic of mining excitement followed. The most unthought-of places,
the old deserted mines, were found to be bonanzas. Andy caught the
fever. He tramped all over the Pine Tree Ranch prospecting, but gave
up in despair. Then he thought once more of the Cove Mine. He made
many a secret trip there. Then he ordered a box of gold dust from the
Yellow Jacket and stole down to the Cove again and again, till
discovered by Job.
In all those years of living for himself and to himself, Andrew Malden
had tried to be square with the world. Business was business with him.
He made no concessions to any man; pity and altruism were not in his
vocabulary. Unconsciously to himself, he had grown to be a very hard
man, and the heart within him found it difficult to make itself felt
through the calloused surface of his life. But with it all Andrew
Malden had been honest. His word was as good as his bond in all
Grizzly county. No man questioned his statements. Everyone got a
hundred cents on the dollar when Andrew Malden paid his debts.
But no man knew that in those days of the hard spring the gray-haired
pioneer was passing through one of the greatest temptations of his
life. Men were buying up mines all about him, just at a glance; mines
fully as worthless as the Cove Mine. Anyhow, who knew the Cove Mine
was worthless? It had had a marvelous record in early days. A little
capital spent might bring immense reward. The old man sat, again and
again, alone on the front porch and turned it over in his mind. Then
he would creep off down to the mine, and feel his way in the dark
tunnel, looking for a new lead. He looked at the places he had salted,
until he almost brought himself to believe them genuine. Nobody would
know the difference, he argued. Job did not know what he was doing
when he found him. He would take the risk; he might lose the ranch
itself if he did not. And, coming home with the first stain of
dishonesty on his soul, Andrew Malden astonished Job by ordering him
to have Jack and Dave hitched up at three in the morning; he was going
to drive to the plains and the railroad station, then take a train to
the city, and would be back in a few days.
Ten days later, Jack and Dave and the carriage, all coated with slush
and mud, drove up to the door, and Andrew Malden, with a strangely
affable smile on his face, clambered stiffly out and introduced Job to
Mr. Henry Devonshire, an Englishman traveling for his health and
profit. With a gruff greeting the stranger said:
"We 'ad a dirty trip hup. The mud's no respecter h'of an H'english
gentleman nor h'an American millionaire, don'cher know?" and the
pompous Mr. Devonshire handed his hand-grip to Job, while he poked out
his shoes for the gray-haired lackey to wipe, with an--
"'Ere, you, clean these feet, bloomin' quick!"
Job and Tony obeyed, but a significant look passed between them.
The next few days things went lively at the Pine Tree Ranch. Some of
the mill men were ordered off to scour the mountains for deer, a new
Chinese cook came up from Gold City, and the old man and the
"H'english gentleman," as Tony called him with a contemptuous chuckle,
mounted horses and went riding over the ranch and down to the mine. It
took all the grace Job had to see the arrogant boor, with his two
hundred and fifty avoirdupois, get Tony to help him mount Bess, and,
poking her in the ribs, call out, "What a bloomin' 'orse! Cawn't h'it
go!" and ride off toward Lookout Point.
It was astonishing, the politeness Andrew Malden assumed; how he
overlooked all the gruffness of his guest and treated him like a
prince. Job fairly stared in wonder. It capped the climax when one
night--just as, tucked up snug in his bed, Job was dreaming of his
last walk home from school with Jane--to feel a rude shake and to see
Andrew Malden with excited face standing over him, saying:
"Jump, boy! Dress quick and saddle Bess and ride with all your might
to Gold City and catch Joe before the stage leaves. Take this
telegram, and tell him to send it as soon as he gets to the plains and
Wheatland Depot! Here, up with you!"
It was not over fifteen minutes after that Job was galloping away on
Bess' back in the cold, night air, over the muddy roads, stiffened
somewhat in the frosty spring night, and lit only by the dim
starlight. It was a wild ride, a ride that sent a chill to his very
marrow; and if it had not been for his ever-present trust in God, it
would have struck terror to his heart. It seemed as if it grew darker
and darker. The clouds were creeping across the stars, the great trees
hung like a drapery of gloom over the roadway. Faster and faster he
rode. Now he soothed Bess as she shied at some suspicious rock that
glistened with unmelted snow, or some crackle in the bushes that broke
the stillness of the night air; then he urged her on till down the
steep Frost Creek road she fairly flew.
It was at the dim hour of dawn, and out of the gloom the world was
creeping into view, when Job, with the white foam on Bess, and both
heated and freezing himself, rode up to the door of the old brick
Palace Hotel, where Joe, just mounting the box of the familiar ancient
coach in which Job had once years ago traveled as a passenger, was
about to snap his whip over the backs of four doubtful-looking horses
which stood pawing the ground as if anxious to be stirring in such
frosty air.
A hurried conversation, a white paper passed into Joe's hands, and the
long whip snapped, four steeds made a desperate charge forward, an old
woman in the coach, wrapped in three big shawls, bounded into air, and
Job saw the stage vanish up the hill, with the horses settling down to
the conventional snail's pace they had maintained these long years.