“Dent,” whispered George Nevins, impressively, “there is gold here.” Then he sat motionless for a few minutes, taking in every aspect of the cañon. “But we will get no nuggets, mind you,” ‸“What gold there is over yonder,”‸ he presently added, in a ‸the same‸ low voice, “That wide gash you see in the mountain, running down through the valley like a swath cut by some gigantic mowing-machine, is the ancient bed of a river. The little smooth pebbles that lie thick in the gulches, though we cannot see them from this height, were mighty bowlders once. The rush of the water, which maybe has not been here for thousands of years, ground them small. It treated the gold with no more distinction; what there is in this place is pulverized, lying in dainty drifts or pockets, two, ten, or twenty feet down on the pipe clay. But no nuggets, John Dent.” ‸“is pulverized, lying in secret crevices, or packed away in the sands of the river-bed; troublesome hard work to get it, too. How neatly Nature stows it away, confound her!”‸

“But there is gold?”

“Tons—for the man that can find it ‸the rich spots.‸”

‸“And nuggets?”‸

“And nuggets.”

(Thomas Bailey Aldrich: 1874 [bib13311], 257–58; 1874 [bib13308], 108–9)

“Nevins has not mistaken the geological any more than he has the moral character of the cañon,” writes John Dent in his journal under date of September 30 ‸October 12.‸ “Gold-dust has been found scattered all along the bed of the pre-Adamite river, and in some instances lucky prospectors have struck rich pockets; but of those massive nuggets which used to drive men wild in the annus mirabilis ’49, there are none here, and no likelihood of any, confound it! ‸we have seen none yet, though there is a story afloat about a half-breed finding one as big as a cocoanut! I am modest myself, and am willing to put up with a dozen or twenty nuggets of half that size. It does n’t become a Christian to be grasping.‸ Mem. Digging for gold, however it may dilate the imagination in theory, is practically devilish hard work.” (Thomas Bailey Aldrich: 1874 [bib13311], 259; 1874 [bib13308], 113–14)

John Dent’s visions of wealth would have been realized in a month or two, but unfortunately the silver lode, as if repenting its burst of generosity, abruptly turned coy, and refused to lavish any more favors. It did worse than that, it ran into the next claim. ‸Just when their shaft was piercing deeper and deeper into the earth, and their rock growing richer and richer,—just as they had fallen into a haughty habit of looking upon each other as millionnaires,—the lode began to narrow. It was six feet wide when it began to narrow; from that point it narrowed relentlessly day by day for a fortnight, and then was a thin seam like a knife-blade,—then “pinched out” and utterly disappeared. After four weeks of drifting, and shafting, and all manner of prospecting, they failed to find it again, and gave up. Some said it was only a rich “chamber”; some said it was one of those treacherous “pockets”; and some said it was a good “chimney,” and was down there yet, somewhere: but whatever its name or its nature might be, Dent, Nevins, and Twombly recognized the fact that it had got away from them, and that was the main grievance.‸

“It is a shame we cannot follow it,” said Nevins; “but we—or rather you—have made a fair haul.”

‸“Anyhow, we have made a fair haul,” remarked Nevins, “thanks to you, Jack, for it was you who lighted on the thing.”‸

“My luck is your luck and Twombly’s,” Dent replied.

They had, as Nevins observed, made a fair haul. ‸They had managed to get out close upon a thousand tons of forty-dollar rock before the calamity came, and after all expenses of mining and crushing were paid, they found themselves nearly thirty thousand dollars in pocket.‸ ‸¶Their pile was so large now,‸—they had reduced it to greenbacks which they concealed on the premises,—‸and‸ its reputation so much exaggerated, that they took turns in guarding the tent, only two going to work at a time. (Thomas Bailey Aldrich: 1874 [bib13311], 261; 1874 [bib13308], 121–22)

“It will never do for us to keep all this ‸dust‸ here,” said Nevins; “there is at least thirty thousand dollars. I could pick you out fifty men in Red Rock who would murder us for a tenth of it.” ‸“we can’t hide it as cunningly as we do the greenbacks.”‸ (Thomas Bailey Aldrich: 1874 [bib13311], 261–62; 1874 [bib13308], 125)

In the morning, eating his breakfast, he had stuck his sheath-knife for convenience into the earth beside him; on withdrawing it he saw a yellow speck shining in the bit of clay ‸dirt‸ adhering to the blade. (Thomas Bailey Aldrich: 1874 [bib13311], 258; 1874 [bib13308], 112)

One fact was clear to both our Rivermouth friends,—Nevins was worth his weight in gold to them.

‸The piece of rock that John Dent had picked up on the mountain-side was, in fact, a fragment of silver-bearing quartz,—the zig-zag thread of blue which ran like a vein across the broken edge betrayed its quality to Nevins at a glance.‸

The next morning ‸A week after this,‸ it was noised through Red Rock that . . . (Thomas Bailey Aldrich: 1874 [bib13311], 260; 1874 [bib13308], 120)

Those treasures had now become a heavy care to the young men. “We keep the dust and ore”—I am quoting from the journal—“in a stout candle-box set into the earth at the foot of the tent-pole, and one of us lies across it at night.” (Thomas Bailey Aldrich: 1874 [bib13311], 261; 1874 [bib13308], 124)

“I knew he’d levant with the pile, some day. . . . Frederick King ‸His true name was n’t Dick King, I reckon, because he said it was. Cool Dick‸ was what they called him in Tuolumne County in ’56.”

Several ears in the crowd pricked up at the words Frederick King ‸Cool Dick.‸ It was a name ‸pseudonyme‸ rather well known on the Pacific slope. (Thomas Bailey Aldrich: 1874 [bib13311], 263; 1874 [bib13308], 130)

Mr. Aldrich came home bringing with him a most unusual guest, clothed in a coat of sealskin, the fur worn outward; a sealskin cap well down over his ears; the cap half revealing and half concealing the mass of reddish hair underneath; the heavy mustache having the same red tint. The trousers came well below the coat, and were of a yellowish-brown color; stockings of the same tawny hue, which the low black shoe emphasized. May and December intermixed, producing strange confusion in one’s preconceived ideas. Was it the dress for winter, or was it the dress for summer? Seemingly it all depended on the range of vision. If one looked up, winter; if one looked down, summer. But when the wearer spoke it was not difficult for the listener to believe that he was not entirely accountable for the strange gear. It was but too evident that he had looked upon the cup when it was red, for seemingly it had both cheered and inebriated, as the gentleman showed marked inability to stand perpendicular, but swayed from side to side, and had also difficulty with his speech; he did not stammer exactly, but after each word he placed a period. His sentences were whimsical, and host and guest laughed loudly, with and at each other. The hostess happened to be in the hall as Mr. Aldrich’s key turned in the lock and host and guest entered. Obviously something very amusing was being said, interrupted for the moment by the words of introduction “My wife,” and the gay laughter continued, dying down for a minute, to start up again; no intimation whatever given as to what name might be attached to this strange-looking personage.

Winter disappeared with the removal of the guest’s fur coat and cap, and summer, or at least early springtime, emerged in the violet tint of the carelessly tied neck-knot, and the light gray of under coat and waistcoat; but for the third one in the group a cold and repellent frost had steadily set in, stiffening and making rigid the face and figure of an inhospitable hostess, who cast reproachful glances at the blameless householder who had taken the unauthorized liberty of bringing home a guest to dinner. . . .

When the hands of the clock pointed to the usual dinner hour, no maid appeared with the announcement that dinner was served, nor was there any answering notice or fellow sympathy to the eye that looked to the mistress of the feast, and then back to the clock, whose hands slowly moved to quarter past—half past—quarter of—and then the strange guest arose and said he thought he would go. The adieus were made and accepted, by one with icy formality, which the other member of the fraternity tried to make atonement for by an exuberant cordiality as he escorted his guest to the door. On his return to the library with unwonted sternness he asked why the dinner was three quarters of an hour late, and why the guest had not been asked to stay; his answer was hysterical tears, and in his bewilderment he heard: “How could you have brought a man in that condition to your home, to sit at your table, and to meet your wife? Why, he was so intoxicated he could not stand straight; he stammered in his speech—” With those words the tangled knot was cut. Quickly the answer came: “Why, dear, did you not know who he was? What you thought wine was but his mannerisms and idiosyncrasies, characteristics of himself, and born with Mark Twain.” There was silence for the moment, and then louder grew the hysterical sobs, muffling and choking the voice: “Mark Twain! Was that Mark Twain! Oh, go after him, go after him; bring him back and tell him, tell him—O, what can you tell him!” But it was not until years afterwards that he was told. (Lilian W. Aldrich, 128–32)

a strange and vanity-devoured, detestable woman! I do not believe I could ever learn to like her except on a raft at sea with no other provisions in sight. . . . I conceived an aversion for her the first time I ever saw her, which was thirty-nine years ago, and that aversion has remained with me ever since. She is one of those people who are profusely affectionate, and whose demonstrations disorder your stomach. You never believe in them; you always regard them as fictions, artificialities, with a selfish motive back of them. Aldrich was delightful company, but we never saw a great deal of him because we couldn’t have him by himself. (CU-MARK, in MTE, 293, 295)