So, just keep your clothes on, Pamela, until I come. Don't you know
that undemonstrated human calculations won't do to bet on? Don't
you know that I have only talked, as yet, but proved nothing? Don't
you know that I have expended money in this country but have made
none myself? Don't you know that I have never held in my hands a
gold or silver bar that belonged to me? Don't you know that it's
all talk and no cider so far? Don't you know that people who always
feel jolly, no matter where they are or what happens to them—who
have the organ of Hope preposterously developed—who are endowed
with an unconcealable sanguine temperament—who never feel concerned
about the price of corn—and who cannot, by any possibility,
discover any but the bright side of a picture—are very apt to go to
extremes and exaggerate with 40-horse microscopic power?
But-but
In the bright lexicon of youth,
There is no such word as Fail—
and I'll prove it!
Whereupon, he lets himself go again, full-tilt:
By George, if I just had a thousand dollars I'd be all right! Now
there's the “Horatio,” for instance. There are five or six
shareholders in it, and I know I could buy half of their interests
at, say $20 per foot, now that flour is worth $50 per barrel and
they are pressed for money, but I am hard up myself, and can't buy
—and in June they'll strike the ledge, and then “good-by canary.”
I can't get it for love or money. Twenty dollars a foot! Think of
it! For ground that is proven to be rich. Twenty dollars, Madam-
and we wouldn't part with a foot of our 75 for five times the sum.
So it will be in Humboldt next summer. The boys will get pushed and
sell ground for a song that is worth a fortune. But I am at the
helm now. I have convinced Orion that he hasn't business talent
enough to carry on a peanut-stand, and he has solemnly promised me
that he will meddle no more with mining or other matters not
connected with the secretary's office. So, you see, if mines are to
be bought or sold, or tunnels run or shafts sunk, parties have to
come to me—and me only. I'm the “firm,” you know.
There are pages of this, all glowing with golden expectations and plans. Ah, well! we have all written such letters home at one time and another-of gold-mines of one form or another.
He closes at last with a bit of pleasantry for his mother.
Ma says: “It looks like a man can't hold public office and be
honest.” Why, certainly not, Madam. A man can't hold public office
and be honest. Lord bless you, it is a common practice with Orion
to go about town stealing little things that happen to be lying
around loose. And I don't remember having heard him speak the truth
since we have been in Nevada. He even tries to prevail upon me to
do these things, Ma, but I wasn't brought up in that way, you know.
You showed the public what you could do in that line when you raised
me, Madam. But then you ought to have raised me first, so that
Orion could have had the benefit of my example. Do you know that he
stole all the stamps out of an 8-stamp quartz-mill one night, and
brought them home under his overcoat and hid them in the back room?
XXXV. THE MINER
He had about exhausted his own funds by this time, and it was necessary that Orion should become the financier. The brothers owned their Esmeralda claims in partnership, and it was agreed that Orion, out of his modest depleted pay, should furnish the means, while the other would go actively into the field and develop their riches. Neither had the slightest doubt but that they would be millionaires presently, and both were willing to struggle and starve for the few intervening weeks.
It was February when the printer-pilot-miner arrived in Aurora, that rough, turbulent camp of the Esmeralda district lying about one hundred miles south of Carson City, on the edge of California, in the Sierra slopes. Everything was frozen and covered with snow; but there was no lack of excitement and prospecting and grabbing for “feet” in this ledge and that, buried deep under the ice and drift. The new arrival camped with Horatio Phillips (Raish), in a tiny cabin with a domestic roof (the ruin of it still stands), and they cooked and bunked together and combined their resources in a common fund. Bob Howland joined them presently, and later an experienced miner, Calvin H. Higbie (Cal), one day to be immortalized in the story of 'Roughing It' and in the dedication of that book. Around the cabin stove they would gather, and paw over their specimens, or test them with blow-pipe and “horn” spoon, after which they would plan tunnels and figure estimates of prospective wealth. Never mind if the food was poor and scanty, and the chill wind came in everywhere, and the roof leaked like a filter; they were living in a land where all the mountains were banked with nuggets, where all the rivers ran gold. Bob Howland declared later that they used to go out at night and gather up empty champagne-bottles and fruit-tins and pile them in the rear of their cabin to convey to others the appearance of affluence and high living. When they lacked for other employment and were likely to be discouraged, the ex-pilot would “ride the bunk” and smoke and, without money and without price, distribute riches more valuable than any they would ever dig out of those Esmeralda Hills. At other times he talked little or not at all, but sat in one corner and wrote, wholly oblivious of his surroundings. They thought he was writing letters, though letters were not many and only to Orion during this period. It was the old literary impulse stirring again, the desire to set things down for their own sake, the natural hunger for print. One or two of his earlier letters home had found their way into a Keokuk paper—the 'Gate City'. Copies containing them had gone back to Orion, who had shown them to a representative of the Territorial Enterprise, a young man named Barstow, who thought them amusing. The Enterprise reprinted at least one of these letters, or portions of it, and with this encouragement the author of it sent an occasional contribution direct to that paper over the pen-name “Josh.” He did not care to sign his own name. He was a miner who was soon to be a magnate; he had no desire to be known as a camp scribbler.