The Story of a Mine | Page 3

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THE STORY OF A MINE
by Bret Harte

UDO BRACHVOGEL, Esq.,
Whose clever translations of my writings have helped to introduce me
to the favor of his countrymen, both here and in Germany, this little
volume is heartily dedicated.
BRET HARTE.
New York, December, 1877.

THE STORY OF A MINE
CHAPTER I
WHO SOUGHT IT
It was a steep trail leading over the Monterey Coast Range. Concho
was very tired, Concho was very dusty, Concho was very much
disgusted. To Concho's mind there was but one relief for these
insurmountable difficulties, and that lay in a leathern bottle slung over

the machillas of his saddle. Concho raised the bottle to his lips, took a
long draught, made a wry face, and ejaculated:
"Carajo!"
It appeared that the bottle did not contain aguardiente, but had lately
been filled in a tavern near Tres Pinos by an Irishman who sold had
American whisky under that pleasing Castilian title. Nevertheless
Concho had already nearly emptied the bottle, and it fell back against
the saddle as yellow and flaccid as his own cheeks. Thus reinforced
Concho turned to look at the valley behind him, from which he had
climbed since noon. It was a sterile waste bordered here and there by
arable fringes and valdas of meadow land, but in the main, dusty, dry,
and forbidding. His eye rested for a moment on a low white cloud line
on the eastern horizon, but so mocking and unsubstantial that it seemed
to come and go as he gazed. Concho struck his forehead and winked his
hot eyelids. Was it the Sierras or the cursed American whisky?
Again he recommenced the ascent. At times the half-worn, half- visible
trail became utterly lost in the bare black outcrop of the ridge, but his
sagacious mule soon found it again, until, stepping upon a loose
boulder, she slipped and fell. In vain Concho tried to lift her from out
the ruin of camp kettles, prospecting pans, and picks; she remained
quietly recumbent, occasionally raising her head as if to
contemplatively glance over the arid plain below. Then he had recourse
to useless blows. Then he essayed profanity of a secular kind, such as
"Assassin," "Thief," "Beast with a pig's head," "Food for the Bull's
Horns," but with no effect.
Then he had recourse to the curse ecclesiastic:
"Ah, Judas Iscariot! is it thus, renegade and traitor, thou leavest me, thy
master, a league from camp and supper waiting? Stealer of the
Sacrament,