Barker's Luck

"Barker's Luck" is a short story by Bret Harte, set in the American West during the Gold Rush era. The narrative follows the character of Jim Barker, a down-and-out miner who experiences a series of misadventures while trying to strike it rich. With Harte's signature blend of humor and poignant insights into human nature, the story explores themes of luck, perseverance, and the complexities of fortune. As Barker navigates the challenges of life in a boomtown, he ultimately learns important lessons about failure, friendship, and the unpredictable nature of luck.

• Short story

								
A bird twittered! The morning sun shining through the open window was
apparently more potent than the cool mountain air, which had only caused
the sleeper to curl a little more tightly in his blankets. Barker's eyes
opened instantly upon the light and the bird on the window ledge. Like
all healthy young animals he would have tried to sleep again, but with
his momentary consciousness came the recollection that it was his turn
to cook the breakfast that morning, and he regretfully rolled out of
his bunk to the floor. Without stopping to dress, he opened the door and
stepped outside, secure in the knowledge that he was overlooked only by
the Sierras, and plunged his head and shoulders in the bucket of cold
water that stood by the door. Then he began to clothe himself, partly in
the cabin and partly in the open air, with a lapse between the putting
on of his trousers and coat which he employed in bringing in wood.
Raking together the few embers on the adobe hearth, not without a
prudent regard to the rattlesnake which had once been detected in
haunting the warm ashes, he began to prepare breakfast. By this time the
other sleepers, his partners Stacy and Demorest, young men of about his
own age, were awake, alert, and lazily critical of his progress.

"I don't care about my quail on toast being underdone for breakfast,"
said Stacy, with a yawn; "and you needn't serve with red wine. I'm not
feeling very peckish this morning."

"And I reckon you can knock off the fried oysters after the Spanish
mackerel for ME," said Demorest gravely. "The fact is, that last bottle
of Veuve Clicquot we had for supper wasn't as dry as I am this morning."

Accustomed to these regular Barmecide suggestions, Barker made no direct
reply. Presently, looking up from the fire, he said, "There's no more
saleratus, so you mustn't blame me if the biscuit is extra heavy. I told
you we had none when you went to the grocery yesterday."

"And I told you we hadn't a red cent to buy any with," said Stacy, who
was also treasurer. "Put these two negatives together and you make the
affirmative--saleratus. Mix freely and bake in a hot oven."

Nevertheless, after a toilet as primitive as Barker's they sat down to
what he had prepared with the keen appetite begotten of the mountain
air and the regretful fastidiousness born of the recollection of better
things. Jerked beef, frizzled with salt pork in a frying-pan, boiled
potatoes, biscuit, and coffee composed the repast. The biscuits,
however, proving remarkably heavy after the first mouthful, were used
as missiles, thrown through the open door at an empty bottle which had
previously served as a mark for revolver practice, and a few moments
later pipes were lit to counteract the effects of the meal and take
the taste out of their mouths. Suddenly they heard the sound of horses'
hoofs, saw the quick passage of a rider in the open space before the
cabin, and felt the smart impact upon the table of some small object
thrown by him. It was the regular morning delivery of the county
newspaper!

"He's getting to be a mighty sure shot," said Demorest approvingly,
looking at his upset can of coffee as he picked up the paper, rolled
into a cylindrical wad as tightly as a cartridge, and began to
straighten it out. This was no easy matter, as the sheet had evidently
been rolled while yet damp from the press; but Demorest eventually
opened it and ensconced himself behind it.

"Nary news?" asked Stacy.

"No. There never is any," said Demorest scornfully. "We ought to stop
the paper."

"You mean the paper man ought to. WE don't pay him," said Barker gently.

"Well, that's the same thing, smarty. No news, no pay. Hallo!" he
continued, his eyes suddenly riveted on the paper. Then, after the
fashion of ordinary humanity, he stopped short and read the interesting
item to himself. When he had finished he brought his fist and the paper,
together, violently down upon the table. "Now look at this! Talk of
luck, will you? Just think of it. Here are WE--hard-working men with
lots of sabe, too--grubbin' away on this hillside like niggers, glad
to get enough at the end of the day to pay for our soggy biscuits and
horse-bean coffee, and just look what falls into the lap of some lazy
sneakin' greenhorn who never did a stoke of work in his life! Here are
WE, with no foolishness, no airs nor graces, and yet men who would do
credit to twice that amount of luck--and seem born to it, too--and we're
set aside for some long, lank, pen-wiping scrub who just knows enough to
sit down on his office stool and hold on to a bit of paper."

"What's up now?" asked Stacy, with the carelessness begotten of
familiarity with his partner's extravagance.

"Listen," said Demorest, reading. "Another unprecedented rise has taken
place in the shares of the 'Yellow Hammer First Extension Mine' since
the sinking of the new shaft. It was quoted yesterday at ten thousand
dollars a foot. When it is remembered that scarcely two years ago the
original shares, issued at fifty dollars per share, had dropped to only
fifty cents a share, it will be seen that those who were able to hold on
have got a good thing."

"What mine did you say?" asked Barker, looking up meditatively from the
dishes he was already washing.

"The Yellow Hammer First Extension," returned Demorest shortly.

"I used to have some shares in that, and I think I have them still,"
said Barker musingly.

"Yes," said Demorest promptly; "the paper speaks of it here. 'We
understand,'" he continued, reading aloud, "'that our eminent fellow
citizen, George Barker, otherwise known as "Get Left Barker" and
"Chucklehead," is one of these fortunate individuals.'"

"No," said Barker, with a slight flush of innocent pleasure, "it can't
say that. How could it know?"

Stacy laughed, but Demorest coolly continued: "You didn't hear all.
Listen! 'We say WAS one of them; but having already sold his apparently
useless certificates to our popular druggist, Jones, for corn plasters,
at a reduced rate, he is unable to realize.'"

"You may laugh, boys," said Barker, with simple seriousness; "but I
really believe I have got 'em yet. Just wait. I'll see!" He rose and
began to drag out a well-worn valise from under his bunk. "You see," he
continued, "they were given to me by an old chap in return--"

"For saving his life by delaying the Stockton boat that afterward blew
up," returned Demorest briefly. "We know it all! His hair was white, and
his hand trembled slightly as he laid these shares in yours, saying, and
you never forgot the words, 'Take 'em, young man--and'--"

"For lending him two thousand dollars, then," continued Barker with
a simple ignoring of the interruption, as he quietly brought out the

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