The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, 1895-07-22
AN HOUR At POKER FLAT.
Some Latter-Day Views of Bret
Harte's Famous Old
Mining Camp.
MOTHER SYMPTOMS 1NvEcTIvE.
Now Constitute the Historic
Town.

The chaparral- fringed ground sluice
leading to Poker Flat. called by courtesy a
trail, winds down precipitous mountain,
the summit of which is capped with eter-
nal SHOWS. Lesser elevations, some heavily
wooded and others showing red-mouthed
tunnel heads through scanty manzanita
growth. stretch away for miles in every
direction with intervening lakes and verdi
ant valleys. Dame Nature has reveled in
strange contortions here and the effect is
wildly picturesque.
| There is variety that pleases the eye,
ruggedness of outline and q solemn
grandeur that inspires awe. Man feels
himself indeed an atom here, amid these
mighty strokes of natures mighty hand.
But it is only step from the sublime to
the ridiculous, and looking down into
deep canyon the eye rests upon that clas-
sic burg of mountain romance-PokerF Flat.
| Our horses, long trained in mountain
service, feel their way cautiously down the
steep trail, which passes at frequent inter
walls along the edge of some bold precipice,
where one misstep would land horse and
rider on the jagged rocks thousand feet
below. At a spring, fed by a rushing
| mountain torrent and bordered with the
| crimson snow plant, we halt a few minutes
for rest and water and then hobble on,
| trusting to our faithful animals for safe
passage down the steep way that has peril
| in every sinuous curve and treacherous
| bowlder.
Half an hour of slow descent and we
reach the head of the canyon by sharp
| turn in the trail. At last we are in Poker
Fiat, the wild mining-camp of 1852, that
turned out 100000 in gold bullion in a
single month and then celebrated the event
with triple hanging. 1t was Poker Flat,
| too, that experienced a SpaSm of virtue
soon after this tragic affair, and under its
regenerating influence, sent forth the out
cast wanderers of Bret Hartes story to die
of cold and starvation on the snowbound
road to Sandy Bar.
There are no 0akhursts at Poker Flat
now, and 'Uncle Billy" has no counter
part in the present population, for the very
| simple reason that there are no slulce-
boxes to rob and no money to win over the
| gambling table. OF Mother Shiptons,"
however. there arc several.
| Our greeting was not cordial. MIR. Rugg
laid it all to the snow plants which we had
gathered, and going into mountain lore,
told of families that had been separated by
taking this bulb of evil omen into the sa-
cred precincts of the home.
! To carry a snow plant is to have bad
| luck. Conceal it as you will, those with
whom you come in contact will somehow
divine your secret and shun You accord
ingly. Your pay streak will peter out, you
will never hold more than one small pair,
the slickens men from Marysville will
catch you mapping over a monitor, and
most likely your wife will run away with
tin horn gambler, who will turn out later
as confirmed sluice-robber-all this if you
carry snow plant. So runs the folk lore
of the hills.
On the porch of one of the six houses
that now constitute the town of Poker
| Flat large red-faced woman sat in rock
ing-chair smoking clay pipe. She wore
short green dress that fell an inch or so
below the tops OF pair of strong cowhide
boots, to which were attached heavy brass
spurs, paper collar. cravat and faded
straw hat.
| Hitched to a fence close by a saddled
donkey looked demurely down upon the
red gravel under his feet. The woman, as
| we afterward learned, was about to start
out for a call upon a friend who lived
| three miles down the gulch when we
refined UP at the door. Our mother Shift
ton" was the first to speak. She said
Hello, to which we timorously responded
| in chorus, Good afternoon
Eyeing us keenly for moment, she arose
| from her chair, removed her pipe and wip-
| ing pair of ruby lips with the hem of her
gown, advanced slowly toward the porch
steps. Her spurs clicked ominously upon
the rickety floor, and when she roared out
in thunder tones, "What in - do you
want here p the population of Poker Flat
| turned out en- masse to learn what new
peril threatened to destroy the town.
With menacing gestures and violent con-
| tortions of the body she rapidly followed
| her angry salutation with flow of invec-
tive and picturesque profanity that would
| have made her illustrious prototype of the
! Bret Harte story turn green with envy.
"Bean-raisers!" she screamed at the top
of her staccato voice until the sad and
| somber donkey looked up in alarm.
dogs of the valley, hounds from Marys-
| vile, slickins, Spies" she cried, ''you come
to take the bread from honest people. We
| made your towns your cities and your
wealth. You would have starved if we had
not washed gold from these mountains,
and now you stop our work because the
| gravel hurts your pumpkin vines" At
| last for want of breath she ceased.
| In the course of her fierce TRADE my
| hand involuntarily wandered down to my
| pistol belt, as the vision of half q dozen
stalwart sons, all armed with Winchesters,
| flashed across my mind
Rugg looked decidedly uncomfortable,
but tried to SMILE and Rugged the camera
| tighter than ever. During the lull that
| followed this first frenzied outburst he
spoke to her. He assured her that we were
not slickens men. that we had not come to
spy in the inter est of the anti-debris peo-
pie, or any one else, that curiosity had
been the sole motive which brought us
into the town, and that we only wanted to
get a few pictures and a drink of water.
All this he offered to prove by letters
and papers in his possession. Still doubt
ing, and apparently gathering force for a
fresh outburst, the woman came down the
steps for the purpose of examining our
credentials. Rugg showed her certificates
of mining stock IN half a dozen different
companies, letters from prominent capital
lists all over the coast, assured her in sooth-
ing tones that he was miner himself and
respectfully submitted card bearing bis
name and address.
Timidly added my own card to the col
lection of exhibits in evidence and when
she looked at it smile spread over her
hard sharp tace.
"MoRNING CALL" she repeated half a
dozen times, looking across the canyon to
where two miners were hoisting powders
with derrick, and then in minute: "I'll
throw up my hand, young fellow. know
you amt no slickens man. You're too
green looking and you don't straddle that
horse like a man what rides over these
mountains much.