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Updated: May 28, 2025
"My location notice, gentlemen," he said, calling attention to a paper freshly attached by wooden pegs. "Honey-bug claim'," they read, "'John Gates'," and the usual phraseology. "But this is a swindle, an outrage!" cried one of the erstwhile owners. "If so it was perpetrated by your own courts," said Gates, crisply. "I am within my rights, and I propose to defend them."
Thus John Gates and his wife, now strong and hearty, became members of this community. His intention had been to proceed to Sacramento. An incident stopped him here. The Honey-bug claim might or might not be a good placer mine time would show but it was certainly a wonderful location.
As a matter of business he worked with pick and shovel until he had proved the Honey-bug hopeless, then he started a store on credit. Therein he sold everything from hats to 42 calibre whiskey. To it he brought the same overflowing play-spirit that had fashioned his home.
He caught his sister in his arms and held her as if he never intended to let the sobbing girl go. His own voice was not at all steady. "Boots Boots . . . Honey-bug . . . Where you-all been?" he asked, choking up suddenly. Pat Ryan Evens an Old Score Dingwell, the coffee-pot in one hand and a tin cup in the other, hailed his partner cheerfully.
"What's wrong, me honey-bug?" asked Brackett, anxiously. "You hain't heard me my prayers!" replied Rosy-Lilly, with a touch of severity in her voice. "Eh? What's that?" stammered Brackett, startled quite out of his wonted composure. "Don't you know little girls has to say their prayers afore they goes to bed?" she demanded.
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