THE SHORTY HARRIS STORY

THE SHORTY HARRIS STORY

An infamous ‘Jackass Prospector’ set out to find fortune. He found it, lost it, and kept searching; only to realize, in the end, what he truly valued. This is a story of character, obsession, and perseverance.

The August sun scorched the rocky desert as a diminutive prospector stood motionless, staring at a greenish rock in his hands. A pulse of excitement shot through him. Could this be it? The $10,000,000 strike? He had always known he would find it. It was only a matter of time. And yet, something about it seemed too easy.

Frank Harris was born in 1857, of Irish-Scottish descent. Orphaned young and raised by an aunt in Rhode Island, he was put to work in the textile mills, his small hands well-suited for the machinery’s tight spaces. He hated it.

The only reprieve came in the form of the state-mandated schooling required for child laborers. Those brief months of learning and socializing opened his mind. “I hate hard work,” he often told himself. There had to be something better, somewhere.

Then came the stories. Tales of prospectors striking it rich in the West, of gold and silver plucked from the earth with little more than a pickaxe and a dream. At fourteen, he ran away, determined to find his fortune.

After drifting westward, hopping trains, and working odd jobs, he arrived in Leadville, Colorado. There, in the heart of mining country, he found work underground. His small stature made him valuable in tight tunnels, earning him the nickname that would follow him forever, Shorty.

Mining fascinated him. He learned to recognize mineral-rich rock and understand the lay of the land. But the hours were long, the work backbreaking. And worst of all? He couldn’t keep any of the gold he helped extract. “I hate hard work,” he muttered again.

With his savings, Shorty bought prospecting tools and a burro. He teamed up with experienced prospectors and, in a stroke of luck, hit silver. They staked a claim, sold it, and pocketed thousands. The fortune felt intoxicating, but what thrilled Shorty even more was the attention.

Every saloon in Leadville buzzed with the tale of Shorty Harris and his silver strike. He bought rounds of whiskey, regaled eager listeners with his story, and basked in newfound admiration. He was somebody.

Then, just as quickly, the money was gone. He had thrown an extravagant party, lavished gifts on friends, and gambled away the rest. But that didn’t matter. He still had his burro, his tools, and, most importantly, his instincts. Gold was out there. He would find it again.

For years, Shorty roamed the West, drifting from Colorado to Idaho, Montana to Utah, then into the sun-scorched deserts of Nevada and California. He became a legend; a “single blanket, jackass prospector.” He had a knack for striking gold but an equal talent for squandering his earnings. Every boom led to a bust, every strike to an empty pocket. But it was never about the money. It was about the thrill, the chase, the game.

“I want the mother lode,” he would say, eyes glinting. “The $10,000,000 strike.”

By 1904, age and the harsh desert had begun to wear on him. His gait was slower, his back stiffer, but his resolve remained. That year, in a saloon in Goldfield, Nevada, he met a young man named Ernest “Ed” Cross. Eager to learn, Ed asked to join Shorty on a prospecting venture. Shorty, seeing an opportunity for a companion to share the burden of the trail, agreed.

In August, while camped in the Amargosa Desert, Shorty set out early to round up his burros. That was when he saw it: a ledge, streaked with green, copper-stained rock. He swung his pickaxe, breaking off a chunk. His breath caught. Gold. Thick, unmistakable veins of it.

“It seemed to me the whole mountain was made of gold,” he later recounted.

Shorty and Ed staked their claim, calling it the Bullfrog Mine, named after a rock that bore a striking resemblance to the amphibian. Word spread fast. Within days, prospectors flooded the area, and a gold rush erupted. Towns sprang up overnight; Rhyolite, Bullfrog, Amargosa; each a testament to Shorty’s legendary find.

He had done it. The $10,000,000 strike. The name Shorty Harris would be etched into history. But fortune, as always, was fleeting.

Ed, uninterested in fame, sold his share for $125,000 and left prospecting behind. Shorty? Well, Shorty did what Shorty always did.

“One night, when I was pretty well lit up, a man by the name of Bryan took me to his room and put me to bed,” Shorty admitted years later. “He left several bottles of whiskey. I helped myself.”

By the time he sobered up six days later, the deed was done. The Bullfrog Mine, his golden dream, had been sold; for a mere $25,000. His signature, clear as day, sat beside those of seven witnesses and a notary. The deal was legal. The fortune was gone.

Shorty didn’t waste time mourning. He simply loaded up his burro and headed back into the hills. “When I go out, every time my foot touches the ground, I think before the sun goes down, I’ll be worth $10,000,000,” he often said.

The years passed, the gold strikes faded, and Shorty grew older. He became a fixture of the desert; his wiry frame and stovepipe hat a familiar sight. He was known for his generosity, always willing to help a fellow prospector.

One day, a writer asked him, “If you could do it all over again, would you?”

Shorty grinned. “I wouldn’t trade places with the President of the United States.”

“But you never got your $10,000,000.”

Shorty chuckled. “Who in the hell wants $10,000,000? It’s the game, man; the game.”

He died at 77, his body laid to rest in Death Valley. His was the last grave permitted in what became Death Valley National Park. Travelers visit it to this day, reading the inscription he would have loved:

“Here Lies Shorty Harris, a Single Blanket Jackass Prospector.”

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