But Judge Hardin is a cunning old lawyer.
Disembarrassed of the grave priest, Hardin at once sends orders
for his prospectors. A new man appears to superintend the grant.
It is with grim satisfaction he reflects that the hand of fate has
removed every obstacle to his control. His fiery energy is shown by
the rapidity with which hundreds of men swarm on ditch and flume.
They are working at mill and giant water-wheels. They are delving
and tracing the fat brown quartz, gold laden, from between the
streaks of rifted basalt and porphyry.
There is no one to spy, none to hinder now. Before the straggling
veterans of Lee and Johnston wander back to the golden West, the
quartz mine of Lagunitas yields fabulous returns.
The legacy of "Kaintuck" was wonderful. The golden bars, run
out roughly at the mine, represented to Hardin the anchor of his
tottering credit. They are the basis of a great fortune, and the
means of political prestige.
When the crash came, when the Southern flags were furled in the
awful silence of defeat and despair, the wily lawyer, safe in
Lagunitas, was crowning his golden fortunes.
Penniless, broken in pride and war-worn, the survivors of the men
whom he urged into the toils of secession, returned sadly home,
scattering aimlessly over the West.
Pages:
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390