right eye and bland face were turned toward the speaker, but his malevolent left was glancing at the dull red-brown rock on the hill side.
“No!”—and turning abruptly away, he proceeded to saddle his mule.
Manuel, Miguel, and Pedro, left to themselves, began talking earnestly together, while Concho, now mindful of his crippled mule, made his way back to the trail where he had left her. But she was no longer there. Constant to her master through beatings and bullyings, she could not stand incivility and inattention. There are certain qualities of the sex that belong to all animated nature.
Inconsolable, footsore, and remorseful, Concho returned to the camp and furnace, three miles across the rocky ridge. But what was his astonishment on arriving to find the place deserted of man, mule, and camp equipage. Concho called aloud. Only the echoing rocks grimly answered him. Was it a trick? Concho tried to laugh. Ah—yes—a good one—a joke—no—no—they HAD deserted him. And then poor Concho bowed his head to the ground, and falling on his face, cried as if his honest heart would break.
The tempest passed in a moment; it was not Concho's nature to suffer long nor brood over an injury. As he raised his head again his eye caught the shimmer of the quicksilver—that pool of merry antic metal that had so delighted him an hour before. In a few moments Concho was again disporting with it; chasing it here and there, rolling it in his palms and laughing with boy-like glee at its elusive freaks and fancies. “Ah, sprightly one—skipjack—there thou goest—come here. This way—now I have thee, little one—come, muchacha—come and kiss me,” until he had quite forgotten the defection of his companions. And even when he shouldered his sorry pack, he was fain to carry his playmate away with him in his empty leathern flask.
And yet I fancy the sun looked kindly on him as he strode cheerily down the black mountain side, and his step was none the less free nor light that he carried with him neither the brilliant prospects nor the crime of his late comrades.
CHAPTER III
WHO CLAIMED IT
The fog had already closed in on Monterey, and was now rolling, a white, billowy sea above, that soon shut out the blue breakers below. Once or twice in descending the mountain Concho had overhung the cliff and looked down upon the curving horse-shoe of a bay below him—distant yet many miles. Earlier in the afternoon he had seen the gilt cross on the white-faced Mission flare in the sunlight, but now all was gone. By the time he reached the highway of the town it was quite dark, and he plunged into the first fonda at the wayside, and endeavored to forget his woes and his weariness in aguardiente. But Concho's head ached, and his back ached, and he was so generally distressed that he bethought him of a medico—an American doctor—lately come into the town, who had once treated Concho and his mule with apparently the same medicine, and after the same heroic fashion. Concho reasoned, not illogically, that if he were to be physicked at all he ought to get the worth of his money. The grotesque extravagance of life, of fruit and vegetables, in California was inconsistent with infinitesimal doses. In Concho's previous illness the doctor had given him a dozen 4 grain quinine powders.
The following day the grateful Mexican walked into the Doctor's office—cured. The Doctor was gratified until, on examination, it appeared that to save trouble, and because his memory was poor, Concho had taken all the powders in one dose. The Doctor shrugged his shoulders and—altered his practice.
“Well,” said Dr. Guild, as Concho sank down exhaustedly in one of the Doctor's two chairs, “what now? Have you been sleeping again in the tule marshes, or are you upset with commissary whisky? Come, have it out.”
But Concho declared that the devil was in his stomach, that Judas Iscariot had possessed himself of his spine, that imps were in his forehead, and that his feet had been scourged by Pontius Pilate.
“That means 'blue mass,'” said the Doctor. And gave it to him—a bolus as large as a musket ball, and as heavy.
Concho took it on the spot, and turned to go.
“I have no money, Senor Medico.”
“Never mind. It's only a dollar, the price of the medicine.”
Concho looked guilty at having gulped down so much cash. Then he said timidly:
“I have no money, but I have got here what is fine and jolly. It is yours.” And he handed over the contents of the precious tin can he had brought with him.
The Doctor took it, looked at the shivering volatile mass and said, “Why this is quicksilver!”
Concho laughed, “Yes, very quick silver, so!” and he snapped his fingers to show its sprightliness.
The Doctor's face grew earnest; “Where did you get this, Concho?” he finally asked.
“It ran from the pot in the mountains beyond.”
The Doctor looked incredulous. Then Concho related the whole story.
“Could you find that spot again?”
“Madre de Dios, yes—I have a mule there; may the devil fly away with her!”
“And you say your comrades saw this?”
“Why not?”
“And you say they afterwards left you—deserted you?”
“They did, ingrates!”
The Doctor arose and shut his office door. “Hark ye, Concho,” he said, “that bit of medicine I gave you just now was worth a dollar, it was worth a dollar because the material of which it was composed was made from the stuff you have in that can—quicksilver or mercury. It is one of the most valuable of metals, especially in a gold-mining country. My good fellow, if you know where to find enough of it, your fortune is made.”
Concho rose to his feet.
“Tell me, was the rock you built your furnace of red?”
“Si, Senor.”
“And brown?”
“Si, Senor.”
“And crumbled under the heat?”
“As to nothing.”
“And did you see much of this red rock?”
“The mountain mother is in travail with it.”
“Are you sure that your comrades have not taken possession of the mountain mother?”
“As how?”
“By claiming its discovery under the mining laws, or by pre-emption?”
“They shall not.”
“But
