The Man and the Mountain

"The Man and the Mountain" by Bret Harte is a short story that explores themes of solitude, nature, and the human spirit. Set against the backdrop of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the narrative follows a solitary miner who embodies the rugged individualism of the American West. Through encounters with nature and other characters, Harte delves into the complexities of loneliness, aspiration, and the search for meaning in an untamed landscape. The story captures the stark beauty of the wilderness while highlighting the inner struggles of its protagonist, ultimately reflecting on the relationship between humanity and the natural world.

• Short story

								
He was such a large, strong man that, when he first set foot in the
little parallelogram I called my garden, it seemed to shrink to half its
size and become preposterous. But I noticed at the same time that he was
holding in the open palm of his huge hand the roots of a violet, with
such infinite tenderness and delicacy that I would have engaged him as
my gardener on the spot. But this could not be, as he was already the
proud proprietor of a market-garden and nursery on the outskirts of the
suburban Californian town where I lived. He would, however, come for two
days in the week, stock and look after my garden, and impart to my
urban intellect such horticultural hints as were necessary. His name was
"Rutli," which I presumed to be German, but which my neighbors rendered
as "Rootleigh," possibly from some vague connection with his occupation.
His own knowledge of English was oral and phonetic. I have a delightful
recollection of a bill of his in which I was charged for "fioletz," with
the vague addition of "maine cains." Subsequent explanation proved it to
be "many kinds."

Nevertheless, my little garden bourgeoned and blossomed under his
large, protecting hand. I became accustomed to walk around his feet
respectfully when they blocked the tiny paths, and to expect the total
eclipse of that garden-bed on which he worked, by his huge bulk. For the
tiniest and most reluctant rootlet seemed to respond to his caressing
paternal touch; it was a pretty sight to see his huge fingers tying up
some slender stalk to its stick with the smallest thread, and he had
a reverent way of laying a bulb or seed in the ground, and then gently
shaping and smoothing a small mound over it, which made the little
inscription on the stick above more like an affecting epitaph than
ever. Much of this gentleness may have been that apology for his great
strength, common with large men; but his face was distinctly amiable,
and his very light blue eyes were at times wistful and doglike in their
kindliness. I was soon to learn, however, that placability was not
entirely his nature.

The garden was part of a fifty vara lot of land, on which I was
simultaneously erecting a house. But the garden was finished before the
house was, through certain circumstances very characteristic of that
epoch and civilization. I had purchased the Spanish title, the only
LEGAL one, to the land, which, however, had been in POSSESSION of a
"squatter." But he had been unable to hold that possession against a
"jumper,"--another kind of squatter who had entered upon it covertly,
fenced it in, and marked it out in building sites. Neither having legal
rights, they could not invoke the law; the last man held possession.
There was no doubt that in due course of litigation and time both these
ingenuous gentlemen would have been dispossessed in favor of the real
owner,--myself,--but that course would be a protracted one. Following
the usual custom of the locality, I paid a certain sum to the jumper to
yield up peaceably HIS possession of the land, and began to build upon
it. It might be reasonably supposed that the question was settled.
But it was not. The house was nearly finished when, one morning, I was
called out of my editorial sanctum by a pallid painter, looking even
more white-leaded than usual, who informed me that my house was in the
possession of five armed men! The entry had been made peaceably
during the painters' absence to dinner under a wayside tree. When they
returned, they had found their pots and brushes in the road, and an
intimation from the windows that their reentrance would be forcibly
resisted as a trespass.

I honestly believe that Rutli was more concerned than myself over
this dispossession. While he loyally believed that I would get back
my property, he was dreadfully grieved over the inevitable damage
that would be done to the garden during this interval of neglect and
carelessness. I even think he would have made a truce with my enemies,
if they would only have let him look after his beloved plants. As it
was, he kept a passing but melancholy surveillance of them, and was
indeed a better spy of the actions of the intruders than any I could
have employed. One day, to my astonishment, he brought me a moss-rose
bud from a bush which had been trained against a column of the veranda.
It appeared that he had called, from over the fence, the attention of
one of the men to the neglected condition of the plant, and had obtained
permission to "come in and tie it up." The men, being merely hirelings
of the chief squatter, had no personal feeling, and I was not therefore
surprised to hear that they presently allowed Rutli to come in
occasionally and look after his precious "slips." If they had any
suspicions of his great strength, it was probably offset by his peaceful
avocation and his bland, childlike face. Meantime, I had begun the usual
useless legal proceeding, but had also engaged a few rascals of my own
to be ready to take advantage of any want of vigilance on the part of my
adversaries. I never thought of Rutli in that connection any more than
they had.

A few Sundays later I was sitting in the little tea-arbor of Rutli's
nursery, peacefully smoking with him. Presently he took his long
china-bowled pipe from his mouth, and, looking at me blandly over his
yellow mustache, said:--

"You vonts sometimes to go in dot house, eh?"

I said, "Decidedly."

"Mit a revolver, and keep dot house dose men out?"

"Yes!"

"Vell! I put you in dot house--today!"

"Sunday?"

"Shoost so! It is a goot day! On der Suntay DREE men vill out go to
valk mit demselluffs, and visky trinken. TWO," holding up two gigantic
fingers, apparently only a shade or two smaller than his destined
victims, "stay dere. Dose I lift de fence over."

I hastened to inform him that any violence attempted against the parties
WHILE IN POSSESSION, although that possession was illegal, would, by a
fatuity of the law, land him in the county jail. I said I would not hear
of it.

"But suppose dere vos no fiolence? Suppose dose men vos villin', eh? How
vos dot for high?"

"I don't understand."

"So! You shall NOT understand! Dot is better. Go away now and dell your
men to coom dot house arount at halluff past dree. But YOU coom, mit
yourselluff alone, shoost as if you vos spazieren gehen, for a valk, by
dat fence at dree! Ven you shall dot front door vide open see, go in,
and dere you vos! You vill der rest leef to me!"

It was in vain that I begged Rutli to divulge his plan, and pointed out
again the danger of his technically breaking the law. But he was firm,
assuring me that I myself would be a witness that no assault would be
made. I looked into his clear, good-humored eyes, and assented. I had a
burning desire to right my wrongs, but I think I also had considerable
curiosity.

I passed a miserable quarter of an hour after I had warned my partisans,

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