About midway down the platform, the railroad
trended to the right, leaving our house and coasting along the far
side within a few yards of the madronas and the forge, and not far
of the latter, ended in a sort of platform on the edge of the dump.
There, in old days, the trucks were tipped, and their load sent
thundering down the chute. There, besides, was the only spot where
we could approach the margin of the dump. Anywhere else, you took
your life in your right hand when you came within a yard and a half
to peer over. For at any moment the dump might begin to slide and
carry you down and bury you below its ruins. Indeed, the
neighbourhood of an old mine is a place beset with dangers. For as
still as Silverado was, at any moment the report of rotten wood
might tell us that the platform had fallen into the shaft; the dump
might begin to pour into the road below; or a wedge slip in the
great upright seam, and hundreds of tons of mountain bury the scene
of our encampment.
I have already compared the dump to a rampart, built certainly by
some rude people, and for prehistoric wars. It was likewise a
frontier. All below was green and woodland, the tall pines soaring
one above another, each with a firm outline and full spread of
bough. All above was arid, rocky, and bald. The great spout of
broken mineral, that had dammed the canyon up, was a creature of
man's handiwork, its material dug out with a pick and powder, and
spread by the service of the tracks.
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