The Story of a Mine. Bret Harte
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Company, with more zeal than discretion, were actively pursuing Pedro and Wiles over the road to Tres Pinos, Senors Miguel and Manuel were comfortably seated in a fonda at Monterey, smoking cigarritos and discussing their late discovery. But they were in no better mood than their late companions, and it appeared from their conversation that in an evil moment they had sold out their interest in the alleged silver mine to Wiles and Pedro for a few hundred dollars,—succumbing to what they were assured would be an active opposition on the part of the Americanos. The astute reader will easily understand that the accomplished Mr. Wiles did not inform them of its value as a quicksilver mine, although he was obliged to impart his secret to Pedro as a necessary accomplice and reckless coadjutor. That Pedro felt no qualms of conscience in thus betraying his two comrades may be inferred from his recent direct and sincere treatment of Concho, and that he would, if occasion offered or policy made it expedient, as calmly obliterate Mr. Wiles, that gentleman himself never for a moment doubted.
“If we had waited but a little he would have given more,—this cock-eye!” regretted Manuel querulously.
“Not a peso,” said Miguel, firmly.
“And why, my Miguel? Thou knowest we could have worked the mine ourselves.”
“Good, and lost even that labor. Look you, little brother. Show to me now the Mexican that has ever made a real of a mine in California. How many, eh? None! Not a one. Who owns the Mexican’s mine, eh? Americanos! Who takes the money from the Mexican’s mine? Americanos! Thou rememberest Briones, who spent a gold mine to make a silver one? Who has the lands and house of Briones? Americanos! Who has the cattle of Briones? Americanos! Who has the mine of Briones? Americanos! Who has the silver Briones never found? Americanos! Always the same! Forever! Ah! carramba!”
Then the Evil One evidently took it into his head and horns to worry and toss these men—comparatively innocent as they were—still further, for a purpose. For presently to them appeared one Victor Garcia, whilom a clerk of the Ayuntamiento, who rallied them over aguardiente, and told them the story of the quicksilver discovery, and the two mining claims taken out that night by Concho and Wiles. Whereat Manuel exploded with profanity and burnt blue with sulphurous malediction; but Miguel, the recent ecclesiastic, sat livid and thoughtful.
Finally came a pause in Manuel’s bombardment, and something like this conversation took place between the cooler actors:
Miguel (thoughtfully). “When was it thou didst petition for lands in the valley, friend Victor?”
Victor (amazedly). “Never! It is a sterile waste. Am I a fool?”
Miguel (softly). “Thou didst. Of thy Governor, Micheltorena. I have seen the application.”
Victor (beginning to appreciate a rodential odor). “Si! I had forgotten. Art thou sure it was in the valley?”
Miguel (persuasively). “In the valley and up the falda.”1
Victor (with decision). “Certainly. Of a verity,—the falda likewise.”
Miguel (eying Victor). “And yet thou hadst not the grant. Painful is it that it should have been burned with the destruction of the other archives, by the Americanos at Monterey.”
Victor (cautiously feeling his way). “Possiblemente.”
Miguel. “It might be wise to look into it.”
Victor (bluntly). “As why?”
Miguel. “For our good and thine, friend Victor. We bring thee a discovery; thou bringest us thy skill, thy experience, thy government knowledge,—thy Custom House paper.”2
Manuel (breaking in drunkenly). “But for what? We are Mexicans. Are we not fated? We shall lose. Who shall keep the Americanos off?”
Miguel. “We shall take ONE American in! Ha! seest thou? This American comrade shall bribe his courts, his corregidores. After a little he shall supply the men who invent the machine of steam, the mill, the furnace, eh?”
Victor. “But who is he,—not to steal?”
Miguel. “He is that man of Ireland, a good Catholic, at Tres Pinos.”
Victor and Manuel (omnes). “Roscommon?”
Miguel. “Of the same. We shall give him a share for the provisions, for the tools, for the aguardiente. It is of the Irish that the Americanos have great fear. It is of them that the votes are made,—that the President is chosen. It is of him that they make the Alcalde in San Francisco. And we are of the Church like him.”
They said “Bueno” altogether, and for the moment appeared to be upheld by a religious enthusiasm,—a joint confession of faith that meant death, destruction, and possibly forgery, as against the men who thought otherwise.
This spiritual harmony did away with all practical consideration and doubt. “I have a little niece,” said Victor, “whose work with the pen is marvellous. If one says to her, ‘Carmen, copy me this, or the other one,’—even if it be copper-plate,—look you it is done, and you cannot know of which is the original. Madre de Dios! the other day she makes me a rubric3 of the Governor, Pio Pico, the same, identical. Thou knowest her, Miguel. She asked concerning thee yesterday.”
With the embarrassment of an underbred man, Miguel tried to appear unconcerned, but failed dismally. Indeed, I fear that the black eyes of Carmen had already done their perfect and accepted work, and had partly induced the application for Victor’s aid. He, however, dissembled so far as to ask:
“But will she not know?”
“She is a child.”
“But will she not talk?”
“Not if I say nay, and if thou—eh, Miguel?”
This bit of flattery (which, by the way, was a lie, for Victor’s niece did not incline favorably to Miguel), had its effect. They shook hands over the table. “But,” said Miguel, “what is to be done must be done now.” “At the moment,” said Victor, “and thou shalt see it done. Eh? Does it content thee? then come!”
Miguel nodded to Manuel. “We will return in an hour; wait thou here.”
They filed out into the dark, irregular street. Fate led them to pass the office of Dr. Guild at the moment that Concho mounted his horse. The shadows concealed them from their rival, but they overheard the last injunctions of the President to the unlucky Concho.
“Thou hearest?” said Miguel, clutching his companion’s arm.
“Yes,” said Victor. “But let him ride, my friend; in one hour we shall have that that shall arrive YEARS before him,” and with a complacent chuckle they passed unseen and unheard until, abruptly turning a corner, they stopped before a low adobe house.
It had once been a somewhat pretentious dwelling, but had evidently followed the fortunes of its late owner, Don Juan Briones, who had offered it as a last sop to the three-headed Cerberus that guarded the El Refugio Plutonean treasures, and who had swallowed it in a single gulp. It was in very bad case. The furrows of its red-tiled roof looked as if they were the results of age and decrepitude. Its best room had a musty smell; there was the dampness of deliquescence in its slow decay, but the Spanish Californians were sensible architects, and its massive walls and partitions defied the earthquake thrill, and all the year round kept an even temperature within.
Victor led Miguel through a low anteroom into a plainly-furnished chamber, where Carmen sat painting.
Now Mistress Carmen was a bit of a painter, in a pretty little way, with all the vague longings of an artist, but without, I fear, the artist’s steadfast soul. She recognized beauty and form as a child might, without understanding their meaning, and somehow failed to make them even interpret her woman’s moods, which surely were nature’s too. So she painted everything with this innocent lust of the eye,—flowers, birds, insects, landscapes, and figures,—with a joyous fidelity, but no particular poetry. The bird never sang to her but one song, the flowers or trees spake but one language, and her skies never brightened
Falda, or valda, i. e., that part of the skirt of a woman’s robe that breaks upon the ground, and is also applied to the final slope of a hill, from the angle that it makes upon the level plain.
Grants, applications, and official notifications, under the Spanish Government, were drawn on a stamped paper known as custom House paper.
The Spanish “rubric” is the complicated flourish attached to a signature, and is as individual and characteristic as the handwriting.