The Story of a Mine. Bret Harte
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IT
The fog had already closed in on Monterey, and was now rolling, a white, billowy sea above, that soon shut out the blue breakers below. Once or twice in descending the mountain Concho had overhung the cliff and looked down upon the curving horse-shoe of a bay below him—distant yet many miles. Earlier in the afternoon he had seen the gilt cross on the white-faced Mission flare in the sunlight, but now all was gone. By the time he reached the highway of the town it was quite dark, and he plunged into the first fonda at the wayside, and endeavored to forget his woes and his weariness in aguardiente. But Concho's head ached, and his back ached, and he was so generally distressed that he bethought him of a medico—an American doctor—lately come into the town, who had once treated Concho and his mule with apparently the same medicine, and after the same heroic fashion. Concho reasoned, not illogically, that if he were to be physicked at all he ought to get the worth of his money. The grotesque extravagance of life, of fruit and vegetables, in California was inconsistent with infinitesimal doses. In Concho's previous illness the doctor had given him a dozen 4 grain quinine powders.
The following day the grateful Mexican walked into the Doctor's office—cured. The Doctor was gratified until, on examination, it appeared that to save trouble, and because his memory was poor, Concho had taken all the powders in one dose. The Doctor shrugged his shoulders and—altered his practice.
“Well,” said Dr. Guild, as Concho sank down exhaustedly in one of the Doctor's two chairs, “what now? Have you been sleeping again in the tule marshes, or are you upset with commissary whisky? Come, have it out.”
But Concho declared that the devil was in his stomach, that Judas Iscariot had possessed himself of his spine, that imps were in his forehead, and that his feet had been scourged by Pontius Pilate.
“That means 'blue mass,'” said the Doctor. And gave it to him—a bolus as large as a musket ball, and as heavy.
Concho took it on the spot, and turned to go.
“I have no money, Senor Medico.”
“Never mind. It's only a dollar, the price of the medicine.”
Concho looked guilty at having gulped down so much cash. Then he said timidly:
“I have no money, but I have got here what is fine and jolly. It is yours.” And he handed over the contents of the precious tin can he had brought with him.
The Doctor took it, looked at the shivering volatile mass and said, “Why this is quicksilver!”
Concho laughed, “Yes, very quick silver, so!” and he snapped his fingers to show its sprightliness.
The Doctor's face grew earnest; “Where did you get this, Concho?” he finally asked.
“It ran from the pot in the mountains beyond.”
The Doctor looked incredulous. Then Concho related the whole story.
“Could you find that spot again?”
“Madre de Dios, yes—I have a mule there; may the devil fly away with her!”
“And you say your comrades saw this?”
“Why not?”
“And you say they afterwards left you—deserted you?”
“They did, ingrates!”
The Doctor arose and shut his office door. “Hark ye, Concho,” he said, “that bit of medicine I gave you just now was worth a dollar, it was worth a dollar because the material of which it was composed was made from the stuff you have in that can—quicksilver or mercury. It is one of the most valuable of metals, especially in a gold-mining country. My good fellow, if you know where to find enough of it, your fortune is made.”
Concho rose to his feet.
“Tell me, was the rock you built your furnace of red?”
“Si, Senor.”
“And brown?”
“Si, Senor.”
“And crumbled under the heat?”
“As to nothing.”
“And did you see much of this red rock?”
“The mountain mother is in travail with it.”
“Are you sure that your comrades have not taken possession of the mountain mother?”
“As how?”
“By claiming its discovery under the mining laws, or by pre-emption?”
“They shall not.”
“But how will you, single-handed, fight the four; for I doubt not your scientific friend has a hand in it?”
“I will fight.”
“Yes, my Concho, but suppose I take the fight off your hands. Now, here's a proposition: I will get half a dozen Americanos to go in with you. You will have to get money to work the mine—you will need funds. You shall share half with them. They will take the risk, raise the money, and protect you.”
“I see,” said Concho, nodding his head and winking his eyes rapidly. “Bueno!”
“I will return in ten minutes,” said the Doctor, taking his hat.
He was as good as his word. In ten minutes he returned with six original locaters, a board of directors, a president, secretary, and a deed of incorporation of the 'Blue Mass Quicksilver Mining Co.' This latter was a delicate compliment to the Doctor, who was popular. The President added to these necessary articles a revolver.
“Take it,” he said, handing over the weapon to Concho. “Take it; my horse is outside; take that, ride like h—l and hang on to the claim until we come!”
In another moment Concho was in the saddle. Then the mining director lapsed into the physician.
“I hardly know,” said Dr. Guild, doubtfully, “if in your present condition you ought to travel. You have just taken a powerful medicine,” and the Doctor looked hypocritically concerned.
“Ah—the devil!” laughed Concho, “what is the quicksilver that is IN to that which is OUT? Hoopa, la Mula!” and, with a clatter of hoofs and jingle of spurs, was presently lost in the darkness.
“You were none too soon, gentlemen,” said the American Alcalde, as he drew up before the Doctor's door. “Another company has just been incorporated for the same location, I reckon.”
“Who are they?”
“Three Mexicans—Pedro, Manuel, and Miguel, headed by that d——d cock-eyed Sydney Duck, Wiles.”
“Are they here?”
“Manuel and Miguel, only. The others are over at Tres Pinos lally-gaging Roscommon and trying to rope him in to pay off their whisky bills at his grocery.”
“If that's so we needn't start before sunrise, for they're sure to get roaring drunk.”
And this legitimate successor of the grave Mexican Alcaldes, having thus delivered his impartial opinion, rode away.
Meanwhile, Concho the redoubtable, Concho the fortunate, spared neither riata nor spur. The way was dark, the trail obscure and at times even dangerous, and Concho, familiar as he was with these mountain fastnesses, often regretted his sure-footed Francisquita. “Care not, O Concho,” he would say to himself, “'tis but a little while, only a little while, and thou shalt have another Francisquita to bless thee. Eh, skipjack, there was a fine music to thy dancing. A dollar for an ounce—'tis as good as silver, and merrier.” Yet for all his good spirits he kept a sharp lookout at certain bends of the mountain trail; not for assassins or brigands, for Concho