Jim Britt became the proprietor of a lead mine—or was it zinc?—in southeastern Missouri, and no mighty distance from his own abode of Last Chance. The mine was somewhat thrust upon Jim Britt by Fate, since he accepted it for a bad debt. It was “lead mine or nothing,” and Jim Britt, whose instincts, like Nature, abhorred a vacuum, took the mine. It was a good mine, but a drawback lurked in the location; it lay over the Ozark Hills and far away from any nearest whistle of a railroad.
This isolation taught Jim Britt the thought of connecting his mine by rail with Last Chance; the latter was an easiest nearest point, and the route offered a most accommodating grade. A straight line, or as the crow is said to fly but doesn’t, would make the length of the proposed improvement fifty miles. When done, it would serve not only Jim Britt’s mine, but admirably as a feeder for the Fort Scot and Gulf; and Jim Britt foresaw riches in that. Altogether, the notion was none such desperate scheme.
There was a side serious, however, which must be considered. The line would cross the extreme northeast angle of the Indian Territory, or as it is styled in those far regions, the “Nation,” and for this invasion of redskin holdings the consent of the general government, through its Congress assembled, must be secured.
Jim Britt; far from being depressed, said he would go to Washington and get it; he rather reveled in the notion. Samantha, his wife, shook her head doubtfully.
“Jim Britt,” said Samantha, severely, “you ain’t been east since Mr. Lincoln was shot. You know no more of Washington than a wolf. I’d give that railroad up; and especially, I’d keep away from Congress. Don’t try to braid that mule’s tail”—Samantha was lapsing into the metaphor common of Last Chance—“don’t try to braid that mule’s tail. It’ll kick you plumb out o’ the stall.”
But Jim Britt was firm; the mule simile in no sort abated him.
“But what could you do with Congress?” persisted Samantha; “you, a stranger and alone?”