One
of
my
comrades
there—another
of
those
victims
of
eighteen
years
of
unrequited
toil
and
blighted hopes—was
one
of
the
gentlest
spirits
that
ever
bore
its
patient
cross
in
a
weary
exile:
grave
and
simple
Dick Baker, pocket-miner
of
Dead-House Gulch.—He
was
forty-six,
gray
as
a rat, earnest, thoughtful,
slenderly
educated, slouchily dressed
and
clay- soiled,
but
his
heart
was
finer
metal
than
any
gold
his
shovel
ever
brought
to
light—than any, indeed,
that
ever
was
mined
or
minted. Whenever
he
was
out
of
luck
and
a
little
down-hearted,
he
would
fall
to
mourning
over
the
loss
of
a
wonderful
cat
he
used
to
own
(for
where
women
and
children
are
not, men
of
kindly
impulses
take
up
with
pets,
for
they
must
love
something).
And
he
always
spoke
of
the
strange
sagacity
of
that
cat
with
the
air
of
a
man
who
believed
in
his
secret
heart
that
there
was
something
human
about
it—may
be
even
supernatural. I
heard
him
talking
about
this
animal once.
He
said: "Gentlemen, I used
to
have
a
cat
here,
by
the
name
of
Tom Quartz,
which
you'd a
took
an
interest
in
I reckon—most
any
body
would. I had
him
here
eight
year—and
he
was
the
remarkablest
cat
I
ever
see.
He
was
a
large
gray
one
of
the
Tom specie, an'
he
had
more
hard, natchral sense
than
any
man
in
this
camp—'n' a power
of
dignity—he wouldn't
let
the
Gov'ner
of
Californy
be
familiar
with
him.
He
never
ketched
a
rat
in
his
life—'peared
to
be
above
it.
He
never
cared
for
nothing
but
mining.
He
knowed
more
about
mining,
that
cat
did,
than
any
man
I ever,
ever
see.
You
couldn't
tell
him
noth'n 'bout
placer
diggin's—'n'
as
for
pocket
mining,
why
he
was
just
born
for
it. "He
would
dig
out
after
me
an'
Jim
when
we
went
over
the
hills
prospect'n',
and
he
would
trot
along
behind
us
for
as
much
as
five
mile,
if
we
went
so
fur. An'
he
had
the
best
judgment
about
mining ground—why
you
never
see
anything
like
it.
When
we
went
to
work, he'd
scatter
a glance around, 'n'
if
he
didn't
think
much
of
the
indications,
he
would
give
a
look
as
much
as
to
say, 'Well, I'll
have
to
get
you
to
excuse
me,' 'n'
without
another
word
he'd hyste
his
nose
into
the
air 'n' shove
for
home.
But
if
the
ground
suited
him,
he
would
lay
low
'n'
keep
dark
till
the
first
pan
was
washed, 'n'
then
he
would
sidle
up
'n'
take
a look, an'
if
there
was
about
six
or
seven
grains
of
gold
he
was
satisfied—he didn't
want
no
better
prospect
'n' that—'n'
then
he
would
lay
down
on
our
coats
and
snore
like
a steamboat
till
we'd struck
the
pocket, an'
then
get
up
'n' superintend.
He
was
nearly lightnin'
on
superintending. "Well, bye an' bye,
up
comes
this
yer
quartz
excitement.
Every
body
was
into
it—every
body
was
pick'n' 'n' blast'n'
instead
of
shovelin'
dirt
on
the
hill
side—every
body
was
put'n'
down
a
shaft
instead
of
scrapin'
the
surface. Noth'n'
would
do
Jim,
but
we
must
tackle
the
ledges, too, 'n'
so
we
did.
We
commenced
put'n'
down
a shaft, 'n' Tom
Quartz
he
begin
to
wonder
what
in
the
Dickens
it
was
all
about.
He
hadn't
ever
seen
any
mining
like
that
before, 'n'
he
was
all
upset,
as
you
may
say—he couldn't
come
to
a
right
understanding
of
it
no
way—it
was
too
many
for
him.
He
was
down
on
it, too,
you
bet
you—he
was
down
on
it
powerful—'n'
always
appeared
to
consider
it
the
cussedest foolishness out.
But
that
cat,
you
know,
was
always
agin
new
fangled arrangements—somehow
he
never
could
abide'em.
You
know
how
it
is
with
old
habits.
But
by
an'
by
Tom
Quartz
begin
to
git
sort
of
reconciled
a little,
though
he
never
could
altogether
understand
that
eternal
sinkin'
of
a
shaft
an'
never
pannin'
out
any
thing.
At
last
he
got
to
comin'
down
in
the
shaft, hisself,
to
try
to
cipher
it
out. An'
when
he'd git
the
blues, 'n' feel
kind
o'scruffy, 'n' aggravated 'n' disgusted—knowin'
as
he
did,
that
the
bills
was
runnin'
up
all
the
time an'
we
warn't makin' a cent—he
would
curl
up
on
a
gunny
sack
in
the
corner
an'
go
to
sleep. Well,
one
day
when
the
shaft
was
down
about
eight
foot,
the
rock got
so
hard
that
we
had
to
put
in
a blast—the
first
blast'n' we'd
ever
done
since
Tom
Quartz
was
born. An'
then
we
lit
the
fuse
'n' clumb
out
'n' got
off
'bout
fifty
yards—'n' forgot 'n' left Tom
Quartz
sound
asleep
on
the
gunny
sack. "In 'bout a
minute
we
seen
a
puff
of
smoke
bust
up
out
of
the
hole, 'n'
then
everything
let
go
with
an
awful
crash, 'n'
about
four
million
ton
of
rocks 'n'
dirt
'n'
smoke
'n;
splinters
shot
up
'bout a
mile
an' a
half
into
the
air, an'
by
George,
right
in
the
dead
centre
of
it
was
old
Tom
Quartz
a goin'
end
over
end, an' a snortin' an' a sneez'n', an' a clawin' an' a reachin'
for
things
like
all
possessed.
But
it
warn't
no
use,
you
know,
it
warn't
no
use. An'
that
was
the
last
we
see
of
him
for
about
two
minutes
'n' a half, an'
then
all
of
a
sudden
it
begin
to
rain
rocks
and
rubbage, an' directly
he
come
down
ker-whop
about
ten
foot
off
f'm
where
we
stood Well, I
reckon
he
was
p'raps
the
orneriest lookin'
beast
you
ever
see.
One
ear
was
sot
back
on
his
neck, 'n'
his
tail
was
stove
up, 'n'
his
eye-winkers
was
swinged
off, 'n'
he
was
all
blacked
up
with
powder
an' smoke, an'
all
sloppy
with
mud
'n' slush f'm
one
end
to
the
other. "Well sir,
it
warn't
no
use
to
try
to
apologize—we couldn't
say
a word.
He
took
a
sort
of
a
disgusted
look
at
hisself, 'n'
then
he
looked
at
us—an'
it
was
just
exactly
the
same
as
if
he
had said—'Gents,
may
be
you
think
it's smart
to
take
advantage
of
a
cat
that
'ain't had
no
experience
of
quartz
minin',
but
I
think
different'—an'
then
he
turned
on
his
heel 'n'
marched
off
home
without
ever
saying
another
word. "That
was
jest
his
style. An'
may
be
you
won't
believe
it,
but
after
that
you
never
see
a
cat
so
prejudiced agin
quartz
mining
as
what
he
was. An'
by
an' bye
when
he
did
get
to
goin'
down
in
the
shaft
agin, you'd 'a been
astonished
at
his
sagacity.
The
minute
we'd tetch
off
a
blast
'n'
the
fuse'd
begin
to
sizzle, he'd
give
a
look
as
much
as
to
say: 'Well, I'll
have
to
git
you
to
excuse
me,' an'
it
was
surpris'n'
the
way
he'd
shin
out
of
that
hole
'n'
go
f'r a tree. Sagacity?
It
ain't
no
name
for
it. 'Twas inspiration!" I said, "Well, Mr. Baker,
his
prejudice against quartz-mining
was
remarkable,
considering
how
he
came
by
it. Couldn't
you
ever
cure
him
of
it?" "Cure him! No!
When
Tom
Quartz
was
sot
once,
he
was
always
sot—and
you
might
a blowed
him
up
as
much
as
three
million
times 'n' you'd
never
a
broken
him
of
his
cussed prejudice agin
quartz
mining."
The
affection
and
the
pride
that
lit
up
Baker's face
when
he
delivered
this
tribute
to
the
firmness
of
his
humble
friend
of
other
days,
will
always
be
a
vivid
memory
with
me.
At
the
end
of
two
months
we
had
never
"struck" a pocket.
We
had
panned
up
and
down
the
hillsides
till
they
looked
plowed
like
a field;
we
could
have
put
in
a crop
of
grain, then,
but
there
would
have
been
no
way
to
get
it
to
market.
We
got
many
good
"prospects,"
but
when
the
gold
gave
out
in
the
pan
and
we
dug down, hoping
and
longing,
we
found
only
emptiness—the
pocket
that
should
have
been
there
was
as
barren
as
our
own.—At
last
we
shouldered
our
pans
and
shovels
and
struck
out
over
the
hills
to
try
new
localities.
We
prospected
around
Angel's Camp,
in
Calaveras county,
during
three
weeks,
but
had
no
success.
Then
we
wandered
on
foot
among
the
mountains, sleeping
under
the
trees
at
night,
for
the
weather
was
mild,
but
still
we
remained
as
centless
as
the
last
rose
of
summer.
That
is
a
poor
joke,
but
it
is
in
pathetic
harmony
with
the
circumstances,
since
we
were
so
poor
ourselves.
In
accordance
with
the
custom
of
the
country,
our
door
had
always
stood
open
and
our
board
welcome
to
tramping
miners—they
drifted
along
nearly
every
day, dumped
their
paust
shovels
by
the
threshold
and
took
"pot luck"
with
us—and
now
on
our
own
tramp
we
never
found cold hospitality.
Our
wanderings
were
wide
and
in
many
directions;
and
now
I
could
give
the
reader
a
vivid
description
of
the
Big
Trees
and
the
marvels
of
the
Yo Semite—but
what
has
this
reader
done
to
me
that
I
should
persecute
him? I
will
deliver
him
into
the
hands
of
less
conscientious tourists
and
take
his
blessing.
Let
me
be
charitable,
though
I
fail
in
all
virtues
else.