Eliza pulled up the blue calico sleeve, and displayed a
pretty bad bruise on the arm.

Simon paused a moment in his cross-examination.

"And you wish he was dead?" he asked at last, between his set teeth.

"Yes."

"What does he look like?"

"Something like you," was the startling response; "only different."

The amendment was, at first blush, more gratifying to Simon than the
original statement. Yet, when Eliza was gone, he went and looked in his
bit of a looking-glass, half hoping to find some touch of the latent
ruffian in his face. All he saw there was a kindly, unalarming
countenance, with a full blond beard, and thick blond hair. The eyes had
a look of bewilderment which did not lessen their habitual mildness. He
straightened his tall form, and threw his shoulders back, and he set his
mouth in a very firm, determined line; but, somehow, the mild eyes would
not flash, and a profound misgiving penetrated his soul. Was he the man
after all, to terrorize a ruffian? The ruffian in question was an
unknown quantity to his would-be intimidator, who boasted but a calling
acquaintance with Eliza's mother,--a pale, consumptive creature, with
that "better-days" air about her, which gives the last touch of
pitifulness to poverty and hardship.

Little as he had frequented the now thriving metropolis of Lame Gulch,
Amberley knew pretty well where to look for his man, and as he sallied
forth that same evening, with the purpose of investigating the "unknown
quantity," he bent his steps, not in the direction of the rickety cabin
in the hollow there, but toward the "Lame Gulch Opera House." This
temple of the muses was easily discoverable, being situated in the main
street of the town, and marked by a long transparency projecting above
the door, upon which the luminous inscription, "Opera House," was
visible from afar.

Upon entering beneath this alluring sign, Amberley found himself in a
full-blown "sample room," the presence of whose glittering pyramids of
bottles was still further emphasized by the following legend, "Patronize
the bar and walk in!" which was inscribed above an inner portal.

The new-comer stepped up to the bar-tender.

"Do you know whether a miner named Conrad Christie is in there?" he
asked.

"I guess likely enough," was the reply. "Mr. Christie is one of our
regular patrons. Won't you take a drink, Mister?"

"No;" said Simon, shortly.

"No? Ain't that ruther a pity? But pass right in, Sir. Any f