McTeague: A Story of San Francisco

But there were men in these mountains, like lice on mammoths’ hides, fighting them stubbornly, now with hydraulic “monitors,” now with drill and dynamite, boring into the vitals of them, or tearing away great yellow gravelly scars in the flanks of them, sucking their blood, extracting gold.

Here and there at long distances upon the cañón sides rose the headgear of a mine, surrounded with its few unpainted houses, and topped by its never-failing feather of black smoke. On near approach one heard the prolonged thunder of the stamp-mill, the crusher, the insatiable monster, gnashing the rocks to powder with its long iron teeth, vomiting them out again in a thin stream of wet gray mud. Its enormous maw, fed night and day with the car-boys’ loads, gorged itself with gravel, and spat out the gold, grinding the rocks between its jaws, glutted, as it were, with the very entrails of the earth, and growling over its endless meal, like some savage animal, some legendary dragon, some fabulous beast, symbol of inordinate and monstrous gluttony.

McTeague had left the Overland train at Colfax, and the same afternoon had ridden some eight miles across the mountains in the stage that connects Colfax with Iowa Hill. Iowa Hill was a small one-street town, the headquarters of the mines of the district. Originally it had been built upon the summit of a mountain, but the sides of this mountain have long since been “hydrau-licked” away, so that the town now clings to a mere back bone, and the rear windows of the houses on both sides of the street look down over sheer precipices, into vast pits hundreds of feet deep.

The dentist stayed over night at the Hill, and the next morning started off on foot farther into the mountains. He still wore his blue overalls and jumper; his woollen cap was pulled down over his eye; on his feet were hob-nailed boots he had bought at the store in Colfax; his blanket roll was over his back; in his left hand swung the bird cage wrapped in sacks.

Just outside the town he paused, as if suddenly remembering something.

“There ought to be a trail just off the road here,” he muttered. “There used to be a trail—a short cut.”

The next instant, without moving from his position, he saw where it opened just before him. His instinct had halted him at the exact spot. The trail zigzagged down the abrupt descent of the cañón, debouching into a gravelly river bed.

“Indian River,” muttered the dentist. “I remember—I remember. I ought to hear the Morning Star’s stamps from here.” He cocked his head. A low, sustained roar, like a distant cataract, came to his ears from across the river. “That’s right,” he said, contentedly. He crossed the river and regained the road beyond. The slope rose under his feet; a little farther on he passed the Morning Star mine, smoking and thundering. McTeague pushed steadily on. The road rose with the rise of the mountain, turned at a sharp angle where a great live-oak grew, and held level for nearly a quarter of a mile. Twice again the dentist left the road and took to the trail that cut through deserted hydraulic pits. He knew exactly where to look for these trails; not once did his instinct deceive him. He recognized familiar points at once. Here was Cold cañón, where invariably, winter and summer, a chilly wind was blowing; here was where the road to Spencer’s branched off; here was Bussy’s old place, where at one time there were so many dogs; here was Delmue’s cabin, where unlicensed whiskey used to be sold; here was the plank bridge with its one rotten board; and here the flat overgrown with manzanita, where he once had shot three quail.

At noon, after he had been tramping for some two hours, he halted at a point where the road dipped suddenly. A little to the right of him, and flanking the road, an enormous yellow gravel-pit like an emptied lake gaped to heaven. Farther on, in the distance, a cañón zigzagged toward the horizon, rugged with pine-clad mountain crests. Nearer at hand, and directly in the line of the road, was an irregular cluster of unpainted cabins. A dull, prolonged roar vibrated in the air. McTeague nodded his head as if satisfied.

“That’s the place,” he muttered.

He reshouldered his blanket roll and descended the road. At last he halted again. He stood before a low one-story building, differing from the others in that it was painted. A verandah, shut in with mosquito netting, surrounded it. McTeague dropped his blanket roll on a lumber pile outside, and came up and knocked at the open door. Some one called to him to come in.

McTeague entered, rolling his eyes about him, noting the changes that had been made since he had last seen this place. A partition had been knocked down, making one big room out of the two former small ones. A counter and railing stood inside the door. There was a telephone on the wall. In one corner he also observed a stack of surveyor’s instruments; a big drawing-board straddled on spindle legs across one end of the room, a mechanical drawing of some kind, no doubt the plan of the mine, unrolled upon it; a chromo representing a couple of peasants in a ploughed field (Millet’s “Angelus”) was nailed unframed upon the wall, and hanging from the same wire nail that secured one of its corners in place was a bullion bag and a cartridge belt with a loaded revolver in the pouch.

The dentist approached the counter and leaned his elbows upon it. Three men were in the room—a tall, lean young man, with a thick head of hair surprisingly gray, who was playing with a half-grown great Dane puppy; another fellow about as young, but with a jaw almost as salient as McTeague’s, stood at the letter-press taking a copy of a letter; a third man, a little older than the other two, was pottering over a transit. This latter was massively built, and wore overalls and low boots streaked and stained and spotted in every direction with gray mud. The dentist looked slowly from one to the other; then at length, “Is the foreman about?” he asked.

The man in the muddy overalls came forward.

“What you want?”

He spoke with a strong German accent.

The old invariable formula came back to McTeague on the instant.

“What’s the show for a job?”

At once the German foreman became preoccupied, looking aimlessly out of the window. There was a silence.

“You hev been miner alretty?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Know how to hendle pick’n shov’le?”

“Yes, I know.”

The other seemed unsatisfied. “Are you a ‘cousin Jack’?”

The dentist grinned. This prejudice against Cornishmen he remembered too.

“No. American.”

“How long sence you mine?”

“Oh, year or two.”

“Show your hends.” McTeague exhibited his hard, callused palms.

“When ken you go to work? I want a chuck-tender on der night-shift.”

“I can tend a chuck. I’ll go on to-night.”

“What’s your name?”

The dentist started. He had forgotten to be prepared for this.

“Huh? What?”

“What’s the name?”

McTeague’s eye was caught by a railroad calendar hanging over the desk. There was no time to think.

“Burlington,” he said, loudly.

The German took a card from a file and wrote it down.

“Give dis card to der boarding-boss, down at der boarding-haus, den gome find me bei der mill at sex o’clock, und I set you to work.”

Straight as a homing pigeon, and following a blind and unreasoned instinct, McTeague had returned to the Big Dipper mine. Within a week’s time it seemed to him as though he had never been away. He picked up his life again exactly where he had left it the day when his mother had sent him away with the travelling dentist, the charlatan who had set up his tent by the bunk house. The house McTeague had once lived in was still there, occupied by one of the shift bosses and his family. The dentist passed it on his way to and from the mine.

He himself slept in the bunk house with some thirty others of his shift. At half-past five in the evening the cook at the boarding-house sounded a prolonged alarm upon a crowbar bent in the form of a triangle, that hung upon the porch of the boarding-house. McTeague rose and dressed, and with his shift had supper. Their lunch-pails were distributed to them. Then he made his way to the tunnel mouth, climbed into a car in the waiting ore train, and was hauled into the mine.

Once inside, the hot evening air turned to a cool dampness, and the forest odors gave place to the smell of stale dynamite smoke, suggestive of burning rubber. A cloud of steam came from McTeague’s mouth; underneath, the water swashed and rippled around the car-wheels, while the light from the miner’s candlesticks threw wavering blurs of pale yellow over the gray rotting quartz of the roof and walls. Occasionally McTeague bent down his head to avoid the lagging of the roof or the projections of an overhanging shute. From car to car all along the line the miners called to one another as the train trundled along, joshing and laughing.

A mile from the entrance the train reached the breast where McTeague’s gang worked. The men clambered from the cars and took up the labor where the day shift had left it, burrowing their way steadily through a primeval river bed.

The candlesticks thrust into the crevices of the gravel strata lit up faintly the half dozen moving figures befouled with sweat and with wet gray mould. The picks struck into the loose gravel with a yielding shock. The long-handled shovels clinked amidst the piles of bowlders and scraped dully in the heaps of rotten quartz. The Burly drill boring for blasts broke out from time to time in an irregular chug-chug, chug-chug, while the engine that pumped the water from the mine coughed and strangled at short intervals.

McTeague tended the chuck. In a way he was the assistant of the man who worked the Burly. It was his duty to replace the drills in the Burly, putting in longer ones as the hole got deeper and deeper. From time to time he rapped the drill with a pole-pick when it stuck fast or fitchered.

Once it even occurred to him that there was a resemblance between his present work and the profession he had been forced to abandon. In the Burly drill he saw a queer counterpart of his old-time dental engine; and what were the drills and chucks but enormous hoe excavators, hard bits, and burrs? It was the same work he had so often performed in his “Parlors,” only magnified, made monstrous, distorted, and grotesqued, the caricature of dentistry.

He passed his nights thus in the midst of the play of crude and simple forces—the powerful attacks of the Burly drills; the great exertions of bared, bent backs overlaid with muscle; the brusque, resistless expansion of dynamite; and the silent, vast, Titanic force, mysterious and slow, that cracked the timbers supporting the roof of the tunnel, and that gradually flattened the lagging till it was thin as paper.

The life pleased the dentist beyond words. The still, colossal mountains took him back again like a returning prodigal, and vaguely, without knowing why, he yielded to their influence—their immensity, their enormous power, crude and blind, reflecting themselves in his own nature, huge, strong, brutal in its simplicity. And this, though he only saw the mountains at night. They appeared far different then than in the daytime. At twelve o’clock he came out of the mine and lunched on the contents of his dinner-pail, sitting upon the embankment of the track, eating with both hands, and looking around him with a steady ox-like gaze. The mountains rose sheer from every side, heaving their gigantic crests far up into the night, the black peaks crowding together, and looking now less like beasts than like a company of cowled giants. In the daytime they were silent; but at night they seemed to stir and rouse themselves. Occasionally the stamp-mill stopped, its thunder ceasing abruptly. Then one could hear the noises that the mountains made in their living. From the cañón, from the crowding crests, from the whole immense landscape, there rose a steady and prolonged sound, coming from all sides at once. It was that incessant and muffled roar which disengages itself from all vast bodies, from oceans, from cities, from forests, from sleeping armies, and which is like the breathing of an infinitely great monster, alive, palpitating.

McTeague returned to his work. At six in the morning his shift was taken off, and he went out of the mine and back to the bunk house. All day long he slept, flung at length upon the strong-smelling blankets—slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion, crushed and overpowered with the work, flat and prone upon his belly, till again in the evening the cook sounded the alarm upon the crowbar bent into a triangle.

Every alternate week the shifts were changed. The second week McTeague’s shift worked in the daytime and slept at night. Wednesday night of this second week the dentist woke suddenly. He sat up in his bed in the bunk house, looking about him from side to side; an alarm clock hanging on the wall, over a lantern, marked half-past three.

“What was it?” muttered the dentist. “I wonder what it was.” The rest of the shift were sleeping soundly, filling the room with the rasping sound of snoring. Everything was in its accustomed place; nothing stirred. But for all that McTeague got up and lit his miner’s candlestick and went carefully about the room, throwing the light into the dark corners, peering under all the beds, including his own. Then he went to the door and stepped outside. The night was warm and still; the moon, very low, and canted on her side like a galleon foundering. The camp was very quiet; nobody was in sight. “I wonder what it was,” muttered the dentist. “There was something—why did I wake up? Huh?” He made a circuit about the bunk house, unusually alert, his small eyes twinkling rapidly, seeing everything. All was quiet. An old dog who invariably slept on the steps of the bunk house had not even wakened. McTeague went back to bed, but did not sleep.

“There was SOMETHING,” he muttered, looking in a puzzled way at his canary in the cage that hung from the wall at his bedside; “something. What was it? There is something NOW. There it is again—the same thing.” He sat up in bed with eyes and ears strained. “What is it? I don’ know what it is. I don’ hear anything, an’ I don’ see anything. I feel something—right now; feel it now. I wonder—I don’ know—I don’ know.”

Once more he got up, and this time dressed himself. He made a complete tour of the camp, looking and listening, for what he did not know. He even went to the outskirts of the camp and for nearly half an hour watched the road that led into the camp from the direction of Iowa Hill. He saw nothing; not even a rabbit stirred. He went to bed.

But from this time on there was a change. The dentist grew restless, uneasy. Suspicion of something, he could not say what, annoyed him incessantly. He went wide around sharp corners. At every moment he looked sharply over his shoulder. He even went to bed with his clothes and cap on, and at every hour during the night would get up and prowl about the bunk house, one ear turned down the wind, his eyes gimleting the darkness. From time to time he would murmur:

“There’s something. What is it? I wonder what it is.”

What strange sixth sense stirred in McTeague at this time? What animal cunning, what brute instinct clamored for recognition and obedience? What lower faculty was it that roused his suspicion, that drove him out into the night a score of times between dark and dawn, his head in the air, his eyes and ears keenly alert?

One night as he stood on the steps of the bunk house, peering into the shadows of the camp, he uttered an exclamation as of a man suddenly enlightened. He turned back into the house, drew from under his bed the blanket roll in which he kept his money hid, and took the canary down from the wall. He strode to the door and disappeared into the night. When the sheriff of Placer County and the two deputies from San Francisco reached the Big Dipper mine, McTeague had been gone two days.

CHAPTER 21

“Well,” said one of the deputies, as he backed the horse into the shafts of the buggy in which the pursuers had driven over from the Hill, “we’ve about as good as got him. It isn’t hard to follow a man who carries a bird cage with him wherever he goes.”

McTeague crossed the mountains on foot the Friday and Saturday of that week, going over through Emigrant Gap, following the line of the Overland railroad. He reached Reno Monday night. By degrees a vague plan of action outlined itself in the dentist’s mind.

“Mexico,” he muttered to himself. “Mexico, that’s the place. They’ll watch the coast and they’ll watch the Eastern trains, but they won’t think of Mexico.”

The sense of pursuit which had harassed him during the last week of his stay at the Big Dipper mine had worn off, and he believed himself to be very cunning.

“I’m pretty far ahead now, I guess,” he said. At Reno he boarded a south-bound freight on the line of the Carson and Colorado railroad, paying for a passage in the caboose. “Freights don’ run on schedule time,” he muttered, “and a conductor on a passenger train makes it his business to study faces. I’ll stay with this train as far as it goes.”

The freight worked slowly southward, through western Nevada, the country becoming hourly more and more desolate and abandoned. After leaving Walker Lake the sage-brush country began, and the freight rolled heavily over tracks that threw off visible layers of heat. At times it stopped whole half days on sidings or by water tanks, and the engineer and fireman came back to the caboose and played poker with the conductor and train crew. The dentist sat apart, behind the stove, smoking pipe after pipe of cheap tobacco. Sometimes he joined in the poker games. He had learned poker when a boy at the mine, and after a few deals his knowledge returned to him; but for the most part he was taciturn and unsociable, and rarely spoke to the others unless spoken to first. The crew recognized the type, and the impression gained ground among them that he had “done for” a livery-stable keeper at Truckee and was trying to get down into Arizona.

McTeague heard two brakemen discussing him one night as they stood outside by the halted train. “The livery-stable keeper called him a bastard; that’s what Picachos told me,” one of them remarked, “and started to draw his gun; an’ this fellar did for him with a hayfork. He’s a horse doctor, this chap is, and the livery-stable keeper had got the law on him so’s he couldn’t practise any more, an’ he was sore about it.”

Near a place called Queen’s the train reentered California, and McTeague observed with relief that the line of track which had hitherto held westward curved sharply to the south again. The train was unmolested; occasionally the crew fought with a gang of tramps who attempted to ride the brake beams, and once in the northern part of Inyo County, while they were halted at a water tank, an immense Indian buck, blanketed to the ground, approached McTeague as he stood on the roadbed stretching his legs, and without a word presented to him a filthy, crumpled letter. The letter was to the effect that the buck Big Jim was a good Indian and deserving of charity; the signature was illegible. The dentist stared at the letter, returned it to the buck, and regained the train just as it started. Neither had spoken; the buck did not move from his position, and fully five minutes afterward, when the slow-moving freight was miles away, the dentist looked back and saw him still standing motionless between the rails, a forlorn and solitary point of red, lost in the immensity of the surrounding white blur of the desert.

At length the mountains began again, rising up on either side of the track; vast, naked hills of white sand and red rock, spotted with blue shadows. Here and there a patch of green was spread like a gay table-cloth over the sand. All at once Mount Whitney leaped over the horizon. Independence was reached and passed; the freight, nearly emptied by now, and much shortened, rolled along the shores of Owen Lake. At a place called Keeler it stopped definitely. It was the terminus of the road.

The town of Keeler was a one-street town, not unlike Iowa Hill—the post-office, the bar and hotel, the Odd Fellows’ Hall, and the livery stable being the principal buildings.

“Where to now?” muttered McTeague to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed in his room in the hotel. He hung the canary in the window, filled its little bathtub, and watched it take its bath with enormous satisfaction. “Where to now?” he muttered again. “This is as far as the railroad goes, an’ it won’ do for me to stay in a town yet a while; no, it won’ do. I got to clear out. Where to? That’s the word, where to? I’ll go down to supper now”—He went on whispering his thoughts aloud, so that they would take more concrete shape in his mind—“I’ll go down to supper now, an’ then I’ll hang aroun’ the bar this evening till I get the lay of this land. Maybe this is fruit country, though it looks more like a cattle country. Maybe it’s a mining country. If it’s a mining country,” he continued, puckering his heavy eyebrows, “if it’s a mining country, an’ the mines are far enough off the roads, maybe I’d better get to the mines an’ lay quiet for a month before I try to get any farther south.”

He washed the cinders and dust of a week’s railroading from his face and hair, put on a fresh pair of boots, and went down to supper. The dining-room was of the invariable type of the smaller interior towns of California. There was but one table, covered with oilcloth; rows of benches answered for chairs; a railroad map, a chromo with a gilt frame protected by mosquito netting, hung on the walls, together with a yellowed photograph of the proprietor in Masonic regalia. Two waitresses whom the guests—all men—called by their first names, came and went with large trays.

Through the windows outside McTeague observed a great number of saddle horses tied to trees and fences. Each one of these horses had a riata on the pommel of the saddle. He sat down to the table, eating his thick hot soup, watching his neighbors covertly, listening to everything that was said. It did not take him long to gather that the country to the east and south of Keeler was a cattle country.

Not far off, across a range of hills, was the Panamint Valley, where the big cattle ranges were. Every now and then this name was tossed to and fro across the table in the flow of conversation—“Over in the Panamint.” “Just going down for a rodeo in the Panamint.” “Panamint brands.” “Has a range down in the Panamint.” Then by and by the remark, “Hoh, yes, Gold Gulch, they’re down to good pay there. That’s on the other side of the Panamint Range. Peters came in yesterday and told me.”

McTeague turned to the speaker.

“Is that a gravel mine?” he asked.

“No, no, quartz.”

“I’m a miner; that’s why I asked.”

“Well I’ve mined some too. I had a hole in the ground meself, but she was silver; and when the skunks at Washington lowered the price of silver, where was I? Fitchered, b’God!”

“I was looking for a job.”

“Well, it’s mostly cattle down here in the Panamint, but since the strike over at Gold Gulch some of the boys have gone prospecting. There’s gold in them damn Panamint Mountains. If you can find a good long ‘contact’ of country rocks you ain’t far from it. There’s a couple of fellars from Redlands has located four claims around Gold Gulch. They got a vein eighteen inches wide, an’ Peters says you can trace it for more’n a thousand feet. Were you thinking of prospecting over there?”

“Well, well, I don’ know, I don’ know.”

“Well, I’m going over to the other side of the range day after t’morrow after some ponies of mine, an’ I’m going to have a look around. You say you’ve been a miner?”

“Yes, yes.”

“If you’re going over that way, you might come along and see if we can’t find a contact, or copper sulphurets, or something. Even if we don’t find color we may find silver-bearing galena.” Then, after a pause, “Let’s see, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Huh? My name’s Carter,” answered McTeague, promptly. Why he should change his name again the dentist could not say. “Carter” came to his mind at once, and he answered without reflecting that he had registered as “Burlington” when he had arrived at the hotel.

“Well, my name’s Cribbens,” answered the other. The two shook hands solemnly.

“You’re about finished?” continued Cribbens, pushing back. “Le’s go out in the bar an’ have a drink on it.”