I met men
at
every
turn
who
owned
from
one
thousand
to
thirty
thousand
"feet"
in
undeveloped
silver
mines,
every
single
foot
of
which
they
believed
would
shortly
be
worth
from
fifty
to
a
thousand
dollars—and
as
often
as
any
other
way
they
were
men
who
had
not
twenty-five
dollars
in
the
world.
Every
man
you
met had
his
new
mine
to
boast of,
and
his
"specimens" ready;
and
if
the
opportunity
offered,
he
would
infallibly
back
you
into
a
corner
and
offer
as
a
favor
to
you,
not
to
him,
to
part
with
just
a
few
feet
in
the
"Golden Age,"
or
the
"Sarah Jane,"
or
some
other
unknown
stack
of
croppings,
for
money
enough
to
get
a "square meal" with,
as
the
phrase went.
And
you
were
never
to
reveal
that
he
had
made
you
the
offer
at
such
a
ruinous
price,
for
it
was
only
out
of
friendship
for
you
that
he
was
willing
to
make
the
sacrifice.
Then
he
would
fish
a
piece
of
rock
out
of
his
pocket,
and
after
looking
mysteriously
around
as
if
he
feared
he
might
be
waylaid
and
robbed
if
caught
with
such
wealth
in
his
possession,
he
would
dab
the
rock against
his
tongue, clap
an
eyeglass
to
it,
and
exclaim: "Look
at
that!
Right
there
in
that
red
dirt!
See
it?
See
the
specks
of
gold?
And
the
streak
of
silver? That's
from
the
Uncle
Abe. There's a
hundred
thousand
tons
like
that
in
sight!
Right
in
sight,
mind
you!
And
when
we
get
down
on
it
and
the
ledge
comes
in
solid,
it
will
be
the
richest
thing
in
the
world!
Look
at
the
assay! I don't
want
you
to
believe
me—look
at
the
assay!"
Then
he
would
get
out
a greasy
sheet
of
paper
which
showed
that
the
portion
of
rock
assayed
had
given
evidence
of
containing
silver
and
gold
in
the
proportion
of
so
many
hundreds
or
thousands
of
dollars
to
the
ton. I
little
knew, then,
that
the
custom
was
to
hunt
out
the
richest
piece
of
rock
and
get
it
assayed!
Very
often,
that
piece,
the
size
of
a filbert,
was
the
only
fragment
in
a ton
that
had a
particle
of
metal
in
it—and
yet
the
assay
made
it
pretend
to
represent
the
average
value
of
the
ton
of
rubbish
it
came from!
On
such
a
system
of
assaying
as
that,
the
Humboldt
world
had gone crazy.
On
the
authority
of
such
assays
its
newspaper correspondents
were
frothing
about
rock
worth
four
and
seven
thousand
dollars
a ton!
And
does
the
reader
remember, a
few
pages
back,
the
calculations,
of
a quoted correspondent, whereby
the
ore
is
to
be
mined
and
shipped
all
the
way
to
England,
the
metals
extracted,
and
the
gold
and
silver
contents
received
back
by
the
miners
as
clear profit,
the
copper,
antimony
and
other
things
in
the
ore
being
sufficient
to
pay
all
the
expenses incurred? Everybody's
head
was
full
of
such
"calculations"
as
those—such raving insanity, rather.
Few
people
took
work
into
their
calculations—or outlay
of
money
either;
except
the
work
and
expenditures
of
other
people.
We
never
touched
our
tunnel
or
our
shaft
again. Why?
Because
we
judged
that
we
had learned
the
real
secret
of
success
in
silver
mining—which was,
not
to
mine
the
silver
ourselves
by
the
sweat
of
our
brows
and
the
labor
of
our
hands,
but
to
sell
the
ledges
to
the
dull
slaves
of
toil
and
let
them
do
the
mining!
Before
leaving
Carson,
the
Secretary
and
I had
purchased
"feet"
from
various
Esmeralda stragglers.
We
had
expected
immediate
returns
of
bullion,
but
were
only
afflicted
with
regular
and
constant "assessments" instead—demands
for
money
wherewith
to
develop
the
said mines.
These
assessments had grown
so
oppressive
that
it
seemed
necessary
to
look
into
the
matter
personally.
Therefore
I projected a
pilgrimage
to
Carson
and
thence
to
Esmeralda. I bought a
horse
and
started,
in
company
with
Mr. Ballou
and
a gentleman
named
Ollendorff, a Prussian—not
the
party
who
has
inflicted
so
much
suffering
on
the
world
with
his
wretched
foreign
grammars,
with
their
interminable
repetitions
of
questions
which
never
have
occurred
and
are
never
likely
to
occur
in
any
conversation
among
human
beings.
We
rode
through
a snow-storm
for
two
or
three
days,
and
arrived
at
"Honey
Lake
Smith's," a
sort
of
isolated
inn
on
the
Carson river.
It
was
a two-story
log
house
situated
on
a small
knoll
in
the
midst
of
the
vast
basin
or
desert
through
which
the
sickly Carson winds
its
melancholy way. Close
to
the
house
were
the
Overland
stage
stables, built
of
sun-dried bricks.
There
was
not
another
building
within
several
leagues
of
the
place.
Towards
sunset
about
twenty
hay-wagons
arrived
and
camped
around
the
house
and
all
the
teamsters came
in
to
supper—a very,
very
rough set.
There
were
one
or
two
Overland
stage
drivers there, also,
and
half
a
dozen
vagabonds
and
stragglers;
consequently
the
house
was
well
crowded.
We
walked out,
after
supper,
and
visited
a small Indian
camp
in
the
vicinity.
The
Indians
were
in
a
great
hurry
about
something,
and
were
packing
up
and
getting
away
as
fast
as
they
could.
In
their
broken
English
they
said, "By'm-by,
heap
water!"
and
by
the
help
of
signs
made
us
understand
that
in
their
opinion
a flood
was
coming.
The
weather
was
perfectly clear,
and
this
was
not
the
rainy
season.
There
was
about
a
foot
of
water
in
the
insignificant river—or maybe
two
feet;
the
stream
was
not
wider
than
a
back
alley
in
a village,
and
its
banks
were
scarcely
higher
than
a man's head. So,
where
was
the
flood
to
come
from?
We
canvassed
the
subject
awhile
and
then
concluded
it
was
a ruse,
and
that
the
Indians had
some
better
reason
for
leaving
in
a hurry
than
fears
of
a flood
in
such
an
exceedingly
dry
time.
At
seven
in
the
evening
we
went
to
bed
in
the
second
story—with
our
clothes
on,
as
usual,
and
all
three
in
the
same
bed,
for
every
available space
on
the
floors, chairs, etc.,
was
in
request,
and
even
then
there
was
barely
room
for
the
housing
of
the
inn's guests.
An
hour
later
we
were
awakened
by
a
great
turmoil,
and
springing
out
of
bed
we
picked
our
way
nimbly
among
the
ranks
of
snoring teamsters
on
the
floor
and
got
to
the
front
windows
of
the
long
room. A glance revealed a
strange
spectacle,
under
the
moonlight.
The
crooked
Carson
was
full
to
the
brim,
and
its
waters
were
raging
and
foaming
in
the
wildest way—sweeping
around
the
sharp
bends
at
a
furious
speed,
and
bearing
on
their
surface a
chaos
of
logs, brush
and
all
sorts
of
rubbish. A depression,
where
its
bed
had
once
been,
in
other
times,
was
already
filling,
and
in
one
or
two
places
the
water
was
beginning
to
wash
over
the
main
bank. Men
were
flying
hither
and
thither,
bringing
cattle
and
wagons
close
up
to
the
house,
for
the
spot
of
high ground
on
which
it
stood extended
only
some
thirty
feet
in
front
and
about
a
hundred
in
the
rear. Close
to
the
old
river
bed
just
spoken of, stood a
little
log
stable,
and
in
this
our
horses
were
lodged.
While
we
looked,
the
waters
increased
so
fast
in
this
place
that
in
a
few
minutes
a
torrent
was
roaring
by
the
little
stable
and
its
margin
encroaching
steadily
on
the
logs.
We
suddenly
realized
that
this
flood
was
not
a
mere
holiday
spectacle,
but
meant damage—and
not
only
to
the
small
log
stable
but
to
the
Overland buildings close
to
the
main
river,
for
the
waves
had
now
come
ashore
and
were
creeping
about
the
foundations
and
invading
the
great
hay-corral adjoining.
We
ran
down
and
joined
the
crowd
of
excited men
and
frightened animals.
We
waded
knee-deep
into
the
log
stable,
unfastened
the
horses
and
waded
out
almost
waist-deep,
so
fast
the
waters
increased.
Then
the
crowd
rushed
in
a
body
to
the
hay- corral
and
began
to
tumble
down
the
huge
stacks
of
baled
hay
and
roll
the
bales
up
on
the
high ground
by
the
house. Meantime
it
was
discovered
that
Owens,
an
overland driver,
was
missing,
and
a
man
ran
to
the
large
stable,
and
wading
in, boot-top deep,
discovered
him
asleep
in
his
bed,
awoke
him,
and
waded
out
again.
But
Owens
was
drowsy
and
resumed
his
nap;
but
only
for
a
minute
or
two,
for
presently
he
turned
in
his
bed,
his
hand
dropped
over
the
side
and
came
in
contact
with
the
cold water!
It
was
up
level
with
the
mattress!
He
waded
out, breast-deep, almost,
and
the
next
moment
the
sun-burned
bricks
melted
down
like
sugar
and
the
big
building
crumbled
to
a ruin
and
was
washed
away
in
a twinkling.
At
eleven
o'clock
only
the
roof
of
the
little
log
stable
was
out
of
water,
and
our
inn
was
on
an
island
in
mid-ocean.
As
far
as
the
eye
could
reach,
in
the
moonlight,
there
was
no
desert
visible,
but
only
a
level
waste
of
shining
water.
The
Indians
were
true prophets,
but
how
did
they
get
their
information? I
am
not
able
to
answer
the
question.
We
remained
cooped
up
eight
days
and
nights
with
that
curious
crew. Swearing, drinking
and
card
playing
were
the
order
of
the
day,
and
occasionally a
fight
was
thrown
in
for
variety.
Dirt
and
vermin—but
let
us
forget
those
features;
their
profusion
is
simply inconceivable—it
is
better
that
they
remain
so.
There
were
two
men——however,
this
chapter
is
long
enough.