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"Thar was an old fellar had a ranch in Chevelon Canyon, an' he was always bein' pestered by mountain lions. His name was Bill Tinker. Now Bill was no sort of a hunter, fact was he was afeerd of lions an' bears, but he shore did git riled when any critters rustled around his cabin. One day in the fall he comes home an' seen a big she-lion sneakin' around.
"Is that his name? I met him down town, and he told me to come here," West explained rapidly. "We had a deal on." "Oh, yer did, hey," leaning his arms on the fence. "Well, Jim Hobart was the name he giv' me. That's my house, which is why I happen to know what his name was. Something queer about that fellar, I reckon, but 'tain't none o' my business.
You can slide right past it in the darkness, and if you keep on fur a good ways the fellar what was shot won't find you again. Bug tole me they didn't intend to go much further down the creek. You needn't be afraid to travel by night, 'cause there ain't any bad water near here, an' the first dam is twelve mile away."
In the early days of a minin' boom there's a lot of trouble. A miner is a crazy fellar often. He'll dig a hole, then move on to dig another. Then if some other prospector comes along to find gold on his last diggin's he yells claim jumpin'. As a matter of fact most of them haven't a real claim till they find gold. An' all that makes the trouble."
"Wal, pretty soon in come two more fellars, an' I knowed both of them. You know them, too, I'm sorry to say. Fer I'm comin' to facts now thet will shake you. The first fellar was your father's Mexican foreman, Lorenzo, and the other was Simm Bruce. I reckon Bruce wasn't drunk, but he'd sure been lookin' on red licker.
Yas, sah; he's whiskers was blowin' round, an' I could eben yeah him cussin' de hoss, when he done shy at a man what got up sudden like from a cart-wheel he was settin' on. I done took one look at dat secon' fellar, and seed it was dat black debble from down Carson way. Den I ducked inter de blacksmith shop out 'er sight.
As I look back over my life an' let me say, young fellar, it's been a tough one what I remember most an' feel best over are the hardest jobs I ever did, an' those that cost the most sweat an' blood." As Wade warmed to his subject, hoping to sow a good seed in Belllounds's mind, he saw that he was wasting his earnestness. Belllounds did not keep to the train of thought.
Everywhere I go, I see posters up like this 'The Gates Ajar! 'The Gates Ajar! I'm sick to death of the sight of the durn thing; I haven't darst to ask what it is. Do tell a fellar! Is it a new kind of drink?" There was a "Gates Ajar" tippet for sale in the country groceries; I have fancied that it was a knit affair of as many colors as the jewels in the eternal portals, and extremely openwork.
Not much, spoke up the young fellar, an' he flipped some gold twenties on the bar, where they rung like bells. 'Why not? Ain't this a store? I want a cinch strap. "Greaves looked particular sour thet mornin'. I'd been watchin' him fer two days. He hedn't hed much sleep, fer I hed my bed back of the store, an' I heerd men come in the night an' hev long confabs with him.
It'll cost any fresh fellar fifty for missin' the train." So that was how eleven of the Rochester team found themselves moodily boarding a Pullman en route for Buffalo and Canada. We went to bed early and arose late. Guelph lay somewhere in the interior of Canada, and we did not expect to get there until 1 o'clock.
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