True
knowledge
of
the
nature
of
silver
mining came
fast
enough.
We
went
out
"prospecting"
with
Mr. Ballou.
We
climbed
the
mountain
sides,
and
clambered
among
sage-brush, rocks
and
snow
till
we
were
ready
to
drop
with
exhaustion,
but
found
no
silver—nor
yet
any
gold.
Day
after
day
we
did
this.
Now
and
then
we
came
upon
holes
burrowed a
few
feet
into
the
declivities
and
apparently abandoned;
and
now
and
then
we
found
one
or
two
listless
men
still
burrowing.
But
there
was
no
appearance
of
silver.
These
holes
were
the
beginnings
of
tunnels,
and
the
purpose
was
to
drive
them
hundreds
of
feet
into
the
mountain,
and
some
day
tap
the
hidden
ledge
where
the
silver
was.
Some
day!
It
seemed
far
enough
away,
and
very
hopeless
and
dreary.
Day
after
day
we
toiled,
and
climbed
and
searched,
and
we
younger
partners
grew
sicker
and
still
sicker
of
the
promiseless toil.
At
last
we
halted
under
a
beetling
rampart
of
rock
which
projected
from
the
earth
high
upon
the
mountain. Mr. Ballou
broke
off
some
fragments
with
a hammer,
and
examined
them
long
and
attentively
with
a small eye-glass; threw
them
away
and
broke
off
more; said
this
rock
was
quartz,
and
quartz
was
the
sort
of
rock
that
contained
silver.
Contained
it! I had
thought
that
at
least
it
would
be
caked
on
the
outside
of
it
like
a
kind
of
veneering.
He
still
broke
off
pieces
and
critically
examined
them,
now
and
then
wetting
the
piece
with
his
tongue
and
applying
the
glass.
At
last
he
exclaimed: "We've got it!"
We
were
full
of
anxiety
in
a moment.
The
rock
was
clean
and
white,
where
it
was
broken,
and
across
it
ran
a
ragged
thread
of
blue.
He
said
that
that
little
thread had
silver
in
it, mixed
with
base metal,
such
as
lead
and
antimony,
and
other
rubbish,
and
that
there
was
a
speck
or
two
of
gold
visible.
After
a
great
deal
of
effort
we
managed
to
discern
some
little
fine
yellow
specks,
and
judged
that
a
couple
of
tons
of
them
massed
together
might
make
a
gold
dollar, possibly.
We
were
not
jubilant,
but
Mr. Ballou said
there
were
worse
ledges
in
the
world
than
that.
He
saved
what
he
called
the
"richest"
piece
of
the
rock,
in
order
to
determine
its
value
by
the
process
called
the
"fire-assay."
Then
we
named
the
mine
"Monarch
of
the
Mountains" (modesty
of
nomenclature
is
not
a
prominent
feature
in
the
mines),
and
Mr. Ballou wrote
out
and
stuck
up
the
following
"notice," preserving a
copy
to
be
entered
upon
the
books
in
the
mining recorder's
office
in
the
town.
We
put
our
names
to
it
and
tried
to
feel
that
our
fortunes
were
made.
But
when
we
talked
the
matter
all
over
with
Mr. Ballou,
we
felt depressed
and
dubious.
He
said
that
this
surface
quartz
was
not
all
there
was
of
our
mine;
but
that
the
wall
or
ledge
of
rock
called
the
"Monarch
of
the
Mountains," extended
down
hundreds
and
hundreds
of
feet
into
the
earth—he
illustrated
by
saying
it
was
like
a curb-stone,
and
maintained
a nearly uniform thickness-say
twenty
feet—away
down
into
the
bowels
of
the
earth,
and
was
perfectly
distinct
from
the
casing rock
on
each
side
of
it;
and
that
it
kept
to
itself,
and
maintained
its
distinctive
character
always,
no
matter
how
deep
it
extended
into
the
earth
or
how
far
it
stretched
itself
through
and
across
the
hills
and
valleys.
He
said
it
might
be
a
mile
deep
and
ten
miles
long,
for
all
we
knew;
and
that
wherever
we
bored
into
it
above
ground
or
below,
we
would
find
gold
and
silver
in
it,
but
no
gold
or
silver
in
the
meaner
rock
it
was
cased
between.
And
he
said
that
down
in
the
great
depths
of
the
ledge
was
its
richness,
and
the
deeper
it
went
the
richer
it
grew. Therefore,
instead
of
working
here
on
the
surface,
we
must
either
bore
down
into
the
rock
with
a
shaft
till
we
came
to
where
it
was
rich—say a
hundred
feet
or
so—or
else
we
must
go
down
into
the
valley
and
bore a
long
tunnel
into
the
mountain
side
and
tap
the
ledge
far
under
the
earth.
To
do
either
was
plainly
the
labor
of
months;
for
we
could
blast
and
bore
only
a
few
feet a day—some
five
or
six.
But
this
was
not
all.
He
said
that
after
we
got
the
ore
out
it
must
be
hauled
in
wagons
to
a
distant
silver-mill, ground up,
and
the
silver
extracted
by
a
tedious
and
costly process.
Our
fortune
seemed
a
century
away!
But
we
went
to
work.
We
decided
to
sink a shaft. So,
for
a
week
we
climbed
the
mountain, laden
with
picks, drills, gads, crowbars, shovels,
cans
of
blasting
powder
and
coils
of
fuse
and
strove
with
might
and
main.
At
first
the
rock
was
broken
and
loose
and
we
dug
it
up
with
picks
and
threw
it
out
with
shovels,
and
the
hole
progressed
very
well.
But
the
rock became
more
compact, presently,
and
gads
and
crowbars
came
into
play.
But
shortly
nothing
could
make
an
impression
but
blasting
powder.
That
was
the
weariest work!
One
of
us
held
the
iron drill
in
its
place
and
another
would
strike
with
an
eight-pound sledge—it
was
like
driving
nails
on
a
large
scale.
In
the
course
of
an
hour
or
two
the
drill
would
reach a
depth
of
two
or
three
feet,
making
a
hole
a
couple
of
inches
in
diameter.
We
would
put
in
a
charge
of
powder,
insert
half
a
yard
of
fuse,
pour
in
sand
and
gravel
and
ram
it
down,
then
light
the
fuse
and
run.
When
the
explosion
came
and
the
rocks
and
smoke
shot
into
the
air,
we
would
go
back
and
find
about
a
bushel
of
that
hard,
rebellious
quartz
jolted out.
Nothing
more.
One
week
of
this
satisfied me. I resigned. Clagget
and
Oliphant
followed.
Our
shaft
was
only
twelve
feet deep.
We
decided
that
a tunnel
was
the
thing
we
wanted.
So
we
went
down
the
mountain
side
and
worked
a week;
at
the
end
of
which
time
we
had blasted a tunnel
about
deep
enough
to
hide
a
hogshead
in,
and
judged
that
about
nine
hundred
feet
more
of
it
would
reach
the
ledge. I resigned again,
and
the
other
boys
only
held
out
one
day
longer.
We
decided
that
a tunnel
was
not
what
we
wanted.
We
wanted a
ledge
that
was
already
"developed."
There
were
none
in
the
camp.
We
dropped
the
"Monarch"
for
the
time being. Meantime
the
camp
was
filling
up
with
people,
and
there
was
a constantly
growing
excitement
about
our
Humboldt mines.
We
fell
victims
to
the
epidemic
and
strained
every
nerve
to
acquire
more
"feet."
We
prospected
and
took
up
new
claims,
put
"notices"
on
them
and
gave
them
grandiloquent names.
We
traded
some
of
our
"feet"
for
"feet"
in
other
people's claims.
In
a
little
while
we
owned largely
in
the
"Gray Eagle,"
the
"Columbiana,"
the
"Branch Mint,"
the
"Maria Jane,"
the
"Universe,"
the
"Root-Hog-or- Die,"
the
"Samson
and
Delilah,"
the
"Treasure Trove,"
the
"Golconda,"
the
"Sultana,"
the
"Boomerang,"
the
"Great Republic,"
the
"Grand Mogul,"
and
fifty
other
"mines"
that
had
never
been
molested
by
a
shovel
or
scratched
with
a pick.
We
had
not
less
than
thirty
thousand
"feet" apiece
in
the
"richest
mines
on
earth"
as
the
frenzied
cant
phrased it—and
were
in
debt
to
the
butcher.
We
were
stark
mad
with
excitement—drunk
with
happiness—smothered
under
mountains
of
prospective
wealth—arrogantly compassionate
toward
the
plodding
millions
who
knew
not
our
marvellous canyon—but
our
credit
was
not
good
at
the
grocer's.
It
was
the
strangest
phase
of
life
one
can
imagine.
It
was
a beggars' revel.
There
was
nothing
doing
in
the
district—no mining—no milling—no
productive
effort—no income—and
not
enough
money
in
the
entire
camp
to
buy
a
corner
lot
in
an
eastern
village, hardly;
and
yet
a
stranger
would
have
supposed
he
was
walking
among
bloated millionaires.
Prospecting
parties
swarmed
out
of
town
with
the
first
flush
of
dawn,
and
swarmed
in
again
at
nightfall laden
with
spoil—rocks.
Nothing
but
rocks.
Every
man's
pockets
were
full
of
them;
the
floor
of
his
cabin
was
littered
with
them;
they
were
disposed
in
labeled
rows
on
his
shelves.