University of Virginia Library

BAKER'S CAT

Speaking of sagacity it reminds me of Dick Baker, pocket miner of Deadhorse Gulch. Whenever he was out of luck and a little downhearted, he would fall to mourning over the loss of a wonderful cat he used to own (for where women and children are not, men of kindly impulses take up with pets, for they must love something.) And he always spoke of the strange sagacity of that cat with the air of a man who believed in his secret heart that there was something human about it — may be even supernatural.

I heard him talking about this animal once. He said, "Gentlemen, I used to have a cat here, by the name of Tom Quartz, which you'd a took an interest in I reckon — most any body would. I had him here 8 year — and he was the remarkablest cat I ever see. He was a large gray one of the Tom specie, and he had more hard, nat'ral sense than any man in this camp — and a power of dignity — he wouldn't a let the Gov'ner of California be familiar with him. He never ketched a rat in his life — 'peared to be above it. He never cared for nothing but mining. He knowed more about mining, that cat did, than any man I ever see. You couldn't tell him nothing about placer diggings — and as for pocket mining, why he was just born for it. He would dig out after me and Jim when we went over the hills prospecting, and he would trot along behind us for as much as five mile, if we went so far. And he had the best judgment about mining ground — why you never see anything like it. When we went to work, he'd scatter a glance around, and if he didn't think much of the indications, he would give a look as much as to say, 'Well, I'll have to get you to excuse me,' and without another word he'd hyste his nose into the air and shove for home. But if the ground suited him, he would lay low and keep dark till the first pan was washed and then he would sidle up and take a look, and if there was about six or seven grains of gold he was satisfied — he didn't want no better prospect'n that — and then he would lay down on our coats and snore like a steamboat till we'd struck the pocket, and then get up and superintend.

"Well, bye and bye, up comes this quartz excitement. Every body was into it — every body was picking and blasting instead of shoveling dirt on the hill side — every body was putting down a shaft instead of scraping the surface. Nothing would do Jim, but we must tackle the ledges, too, and so we did. We commenced putting down a shaft, and Tom Quartz he begin to wonder what in the Dickens it was all about. He hadn't ever seen any mining like that before, and he was all upset, as you may say he couldn't come to a right understanding of it no way — it was too many for him. He was down on it, too, you bet you— he was down on it powerful — and always appeared to consider it the cussedest foolishness out. But that cat, you know, he was always agin new fangled arrangements — somehow he never could abide 'em. You know how it is with old habits. But by and by Tom Quartz begin to git sort of reconciled a little, though he never could altogether understand that eternal sinking of a shaft and never panning out any thing. At last he got to coming down in the shaft, hisself, to try to cipher it out. And when he'd get the blues, and feel kind o' scruffy, aggravated and disgusted — knowing as he did, that the bills was running up all the time and we warn't making a cent — he would curl up on a gunny sack in the corner and go to sleep. Well, one day when the shaft was down about 8 foot, the rock got so hard that we had to put in a blast — the first blasting we'd ever done since Tom Quartz was born. And then we lit the fuse and clumb out and got off about 50 yards — and forgot and left Tom Quartz sound asleep on the gunny sack. In about a minute we seen a puff of smoke bust up out of the hole, and then everything let go with an awful crash, and about four million tons of rocks and dirt and smoke and splinters shot up about a mile and a half into the air, and by George, right in the midst of it was old Tom Quartz going end over end, and a snorting and a sneezing, and a clawing and a reaching for things like all possessed. But it warn't no use, you know. it warn't no use. And that was the last we see of him for about two minutes and a half, and then all of a sudden it begin to rain rocks and rubbage, and directly he come down ker-whop about ten foot off from where we stood. Well, I reckon he was p'raps the orneriest looking beast you ever see. One ear was sot back on his neck, and his tail way stove up, and his eye-winkers was swinged off, and he was all blacked up with powder and smoke and all sloppy with mud and slush from one end to the other. Well sir, it warn't no use to try to apologize — we couldn't say a word. He took a sort of a disgusted look at hisself, and then he looked at us — and it was just exactly as if he had said — "Gents, May be you think it's smart to take advantage of a cat that 'ain't had no experience of quartz mining, but I think different" — and then he turned on his heel and marched off home without ever saying another word.

"That was jest his style. And may be you won't believe it, but after that you never see a cat so prejudiced agin quartz mining as what he was. And by and bye when he did get to going down in the shaft agin, you'd a been astonished at his sagacity. The minute we'd touch off a blast and the fuse'd begin to sizzle, he'd give a look as much as to say, 'Well, I'll have to get you to excuse me,' and it was surprising, the way he'd shin out of that hole and go for a tree.

I said, The affection and the pride that lit up Baker's face when he delivered this tribute to the firmness of his humble friend of other days will always be a vivid memory with me.