The Story of a Mine. Bret Harte

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The Story of a Mine - Bret Harte


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       Bret Harte

      The Story of a Mine

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066224059

       PART—I.

       CHAPTER I

       WHO SOUGHT IT

       CHAPTER II

       WHO FOUND IT

       CHAPTER III

       WHO CLAIMED IT

       CHAPTER IV

       WHO TOOK IT

       CHAPTER V

       WHO HAD A LIEN ON IT

       PART II.—IN THE COURTS

       CHAPTER VI

       HOW A GRANT WAS GOT FOR IT

       CHAPTER VII

       WHO PLEAD FOR IT

       CHAPTER VIII

       OF COUNSEL FOR IT

       CHAPTER IX

       WHAT THE FAIR HAD TO DO ABOUT IT

       PART III.—IN CONGRESS

       CHAPTER X

       WHO LOBBIED FOR IT

       CHAPTER XI

       HOW IT WAS LOBBIED FOR

       CHAPTER XII

       A RACE FOR IT

       CHAPTER XIII

       HOW IT BECAME FAMOUS

       CHAPTER XIV

       WHAT CULTURE DID FOR IT

       CHAPTER XV

       HOW IT BECAME UNFINISHED BUSINESS

       CHAPTER XVI

       AND WHO FORGOT IT

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      It was a steep trail leading over the Monterey Coast Range. Concho was very tired, Concho was very dusty, Concho was very much disgusted. To Concho's mind there was but one relief for these insurmountable difficulties, and that lay in a leathern bottle slung over the machillas of his saddle. Concho raised the bottle to his lips, took a long draught, made a wry face, and ejaculated:

      “Carajo!”

      It appeared that the bottle did not contain aguardiente, but had lately been filled in a tavern near Tres Pinos by an Irishman who sold had American whisky under that pleasing Castilian title. Nevertheless Concho had already nearly emptied the bottle, and it fell back against the saddle as yellow and flaccid as his own cheeks. Thus reinforced Concho turned to look at the valley behind him, from which he had climbed since noon. It was a sterile waste bordered here and there by arable fringes and valdas of meadow land, but in the main, dusty, dry, and forbidding. His eye rested for a moment on a low white cloud line on the eastern horizon, but so mocking and unsubstantial that it seemed to come and go as he gazed. Concho struck his forehead and winked his hot eyelids. Was it the Sierras or the cursed American whisky?

      Again he recommenced the ascent. At times the half-worn, half-visible trail became utterly lost in the bare black outcrop of the ridge, but his sagacious mule soon found it again, until, stepping upon a loose boulder, she slipped and fell. In vain Concho tried to lift her from out the ruin of camp kettles, prospecting pans, and picks; she remained quietly recumbent, occasionally raising her head as if to contemplatively glance over the arid plain below. Then he had recourse to useless blows. Then he essayed profanity of a secular kind, such as “Assassin,” “Thief,” “Beast with a pig's head,” “Food for the Bull's Horns,” but with no effect.

      Then he had recourse to the curse ecclesiastic:

      “Ah, Judas Iscariot! is it thus, renegade and traitor, thou leavest me, thy master, a league from camp and supper waiting? Stealer


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