by Bret Harte
A MILLIONAIRE OF ROUGH-AND-READY
by
BRET HARTE
JTABLE 4 7 1
PROLOGUE
There was no mistake this time: he had struck gold at last!
It had lain there before him a moment ago--a misshapen piece ofbrown-stained quartz, interspersed with dull yellow metal; yieldingenough to have allowed the points of his pick to penetrate itshoneycombed recesses, yet heavy enough to drop from the point of hispick as he endeavored to lift it from the red earth.
He was seeing all this plainly, although he found himself, he knew notwhy, at some distance from the scene of his discovery, his heartfoolishly beating, his breath impotently hurried. Yet he was walkingslowly and vaguely; conscious of stopping and staring at the landscape,which no longer looked familiar to him. He was hoping for someinstinct or force of habit to recall him to himself; yet when he saw aneighbor at work in an adjacent claim, he hesitated, and then turnedhis back upon him. Yet only a moment before he had thought of runningto him, saying, "By Jingo! I've struck it," or "D--n it, old man, I'vegot it"; but that moment had passed, and now it seemed to him that hecould scarce raise his voice, or, if he did, the ejaculation wouldappear forced and artificial. Neither could he go over to him coollyand tell his good fortune; and, partly from this strange shyness, andpartly with a hope that another survey of the treasure might restorehim to natural expression, he walked back to his tunnel.
Yes; it was there! No mere "pocket" or "deposit," but a part of theactual vein he had been so long seeking. It was there, sure enough,lying beside the pick and the debris of the "face" of the vein that hehad exposed sufficiently, after the first shock of discovery, to assurehimself of the fact and the permanence of his fortune. It was there,and with it the refutation of his enemies' sneers, the corroboration ofhis friends' belief, the practical demonstration of his own theories,the reward of his patient labors. It was there, sure enough. But,somehow, he not only failed to recall the first joy of discovery, butwas conscious of a vague sense of responsibility and unrest. It was,no doubt, an enormous fortune to a man in his circumstances: perhaps itmeant a couple of hundred thousand dollars, or more, judging from thevalue of the old Martin lead, which was not as rich as this, but itrequired to be worked constantly and judiciously. It was with adecided sense of uneasiness that he again sought the open sunlight ofthe hillside. His neighbor was still visible on the adjacent claim;but he had apparently stopped working, and was contemplatively smokinga pipe under a large pine-tree. For an instant he envied him hisapparent contentment. He had a sudden fierce and inexplicable desireto go over to him and exasperate his easy poverty by a revelation ofhis own new-found treasure. But even that sensation quickly passed,and left him staring blankly at the landscape again.
As soon as he had made his discovery known, and settled its value, hewould send for his wife and her children in the States. He would builda fine house on the opposite hillside, if she would consent to it,unless she preferred, for the children's sake, to live in SanFrancisco. A sense of a loss of independence--of a change ofcircumstances that left him no longer his own master--began to perplexhim, in the midst of his brightest projects. Certain other relationswith other members of his family, which had lapsed by absence and hisinsignificance, must now be taken up anew. He must do something forhis sister Jane, for his brother William, for his wife's poorconnections. It would be unfair to him to say that he contemplatedthose things with any other instinct than that of generosity; yet hewas conscious of being already perplexed and puzzled.
Meantime, however, the neighbor had apparently finished his pipe, and,knocking the ashes out of it, rose suddenly, and ended any furtheruncertainty of their meeting by walking over directly towards him. Thetreasure-finder advanced a few steps on his side, and then stoppedirresolutely.
"Hollo, Slinn!" said the neighbor, confidently.
"Hollo, Masters," responded Slinn, faintly. From the sound of the twovoices a stranger might have mistaken their relative condition. "Whatin thunder are you mooning about for? What's up?" Then, catchingsight of Slinn's pale and anxious face, he added abruptly, "Are yousick?"
Slinn was on the point of telling him his good fortune, but stopped.The unlucky question confirmed his consciousness of his physical andmental disturbance, and he dreaded the ready ridicule of his companion.He would tell him later; Masters need not know WHEN he had made thestrike. Besides, in his present vagueness, he shrank from the brusque,practical questioning that would be sure to follow the revelation to aman of Masters' temperament.
"I'm a little giddy here," he answered, putting his hand to his head,"and I thought I'd knock off until I was better."
Masters examined him with two very critical gray eyes. "Tell ye what,old man!--if you don't quit this dog-goned foolin' of yours in thatGod-forsaken tunnel you'll get loony! Times you get so tangled up infollerin' that blind lead o' yours you ain't sensible!"
Here was the opportunity to tell him all, and vindicate the justice ofhis theories! But he shrank from it again; and now, adding to theconfusion, was a singular sense of dread at the mental labor ofexplanation. He only smiled painfully, and began to move away. "Lookyou!" said Masters, peremptorily, "ye want about three fingers ofstraight whiskey to set you right, and you've got to take it with me.D--n it, man, it may be the last drink we take together! Don't look soskeered! I mean--I made up my mind about ten minutes ago to cut thewhole d--d thing, and light out for fresh diggings. I'm sick ofgetting only grub wages out o' this bill. So that's what I mean bysaying it's the last drink you and me'll take together. You know myways: sayin' and doin' with me's the same thing."
It was true. Slinn had often envied Masters' promptness of decisionand resolution. But he only looked at the grim face of hisinterlocutor with a feeble sense of relief. He was GOING. And he,Slinn, would not have to explain anything!
He murmured something about having to go over to the settlement onbusiness. He dreaded lest Masters should insist upon going into thetunnel.
"I suppose you want to mail that letter," said Masters, drily. "Themail don't go till to-morrow, so you've got time to finish it, and putit in an envelope."
Following the direction of Masters' eyes, Slinn looked down and saw, tohis utter surprise, that he was holding an unfinished pencilled note inhis hand. How it came there, when he had written it, he could nottell; he dimly remembered that one of his first impulses was to writeto his wife, but that he had already done so he had forgotten. Hehastily concealed the note in his breast-pocket, with a vacant smile.Masters eyed him half contemptuously, half compassionately.
"Don't forget yourself and drop it in some hollow tree for aletter-box," he said. "Well--so long!--since you won't drink. Takecare of yourself," and, turning on his heel, Masters walked away.
Slinn watched him as he crossed over to his abandoned claim, saw himgather his few mining utensils, strap his blanket over his back, lifthis hat on his long-handled shovel as a token of farewell, and thenstride light-heartedly over the ridge.
He was alone now with his secret and his treasure. The only man in theworld who knew of the exact position of his tunnel had gone awayforever. It was not likely that this chance companion of a few weekswould ever remember him or the locality again; he would now leave histreasure alone--for even a day perhaps--until he had thought out someplan and sought out some friend in whom to confide. His secluded life,the singular habits of concentration which had at last proved sosuccessful had, at the same time, left him few acquaintances and noassociates. And in all his well-laid plans and patiently-digestedtheories for finding the treasure, the means and methods of working itand disposing of it had never entered.
And
now, at the hour when he most needed his faculties, what was themeaning of this strange benumbing of them!
Patience! He only wanted a little rest--a little time to recoverhimself. There was a large boulder under a tree in the highway of thesettlement--a sheltered spot where he had often waited for the comingof the stage-coach. He would go there, and when he was sufficientlyrested and composed he would go on.
Nevertheless, on his way he diverged and turned into the woods, for noother apparent purpose than to find a hollow tree. "A hollow tree."Yes! that was what Masters had said; he remembered it distinctly; andsomething was to be done there, but what it was, or why it should bedone, he could not tell. However, it was done, and very luckily, forhis limbs could scarcely support him further, and reaching that boulderhe dropped upon it like another stone.
And now, strange to say, the uneasiness and perplexity which hadpossessed him ever since he had stood before his revealed wealthdropped from him like a burden laid upon the wayside. A measurelesspeace stole over him, in which visions of his new-found fortune, nolonger a trouble and perplexity, but crowned with happiness andblessing to all around him, assumed proportions far beyond his ownweak, selfish plans. In its even-handed benefaction, his wife andchildren, his friends and relations, even his late poor companion ofthe hillside, met and moved harmoniously together; in its far-reachingconsequences there was only the influence of good. It was not strangethat this poor finite mind should never have conceived the meaning ofthe wealth extended to him; or that conceiving it he should faint andfalter under the revelation. Enough that for a few minutes he musthave tasted a joy of perfect anticipation that years of actualpossession might never bring.
The sun seemed to go down in a rosy dream of his own happiness, as hestill sat there. Later, the shadows of the trees thickened andsurrounded him, and still later fell the calm of a quiet evening skywith far-spaced passionless stars, that seemed as little troubled bywhat they looked upon as he was by the stealthy creeping life in thegrasses and underbrush at his feet. The dull patter of soft littlefeet in the soft dust of the road, the gentle gleam of moist andwondering little eyes on the branches and in the mossy edges of theboulder, did not disturb him. He sat patiently through it all, as ifhe had not yet made up his mind.
But when the stage came with the flashing sun the next morning, and theirresistible clamor of life and action, the driver suddenly laid hisfour spirited horses on their haunches before the quiet spot. Theexpress messenger clambered down from the box, and approached whatseemed to be a heap of cast-off clothes upon the boulder.
"He don't seem to be drunk," he said, in reply to a querulousinterrogation from the passengers. "I can't make him out. His eyesare open, but he cannot speak or move. Take a look at him, Doc."
A rough unprofessional-looking man here descended from the inside ofthe coach, and, carelessly thrusting aside the other curiouspassengers, suddenly leant over the heap of clothes in a professionalattitude.
"He is dead," said one of the passengers.
The rough man let the passive head sink softly down again. "No suchluck for him," he said curtly, but not unkindly. "It's a stroke ofparalysis--and about as big as they make 'em. It's a toss-up if heever speaks or moves again as long as he lives."