eceived with open arms, so
to speak, by the Springtown contingent, when he had put in an appearance
the day before at the _Mountain Lion_. He had arrived in a state of high
good humor, induced by the stage ride from the railroad terminus, which
he had accomplished, perched upon the topmost seat of the big
"Concord," scraping acquaintance with a miscellaneous lot of pilgrims,
all bound to the same conglomerate Mecca. Indeed, so charmed had he been
with the manners and language of his fellow-passengers, that it is to be
feared that he did but scant justice to the superb scenery spread out
for the delectation of the traveller. There were moments, to be sure,
when a line of gleaming snow-caps visible through the interstices of a
tract of starveling trees would arrest his attention; yet the more
moving and dramatic interest of some chance utterance in his immediate
vicinity, was sure to recall him to a delighted contemplation of a
rakish sombrero or of a doubtfully "diamond" scarf-pin. When, at last,
the stage reached the edge of the sort of basin in which the camp lies,
and began the descent of the last declivity, he could scarcely contain
himself for sheer joy. What, to him, were the glories of the encircling
peaks, the unfolding wonders of this heart of the Rockies, compared with
the actual sight of the mushroom growth of pine huts and canvas tents,
straggling sparsely up the hill, centring closely in the valley?
Children and dogs tumbled over each other on the barren slope which
looked like one vast back yard; donkeys grazed there, apparently
fattening upon a rich diet of tin cans and shavings. Over yonder was a
charred heap which had once been a building of some pretension, as was
evident from the rude stone foundation which the blackened timbers
leaned against. So Lame Gulch had its history, its traditions, its ruin.
The charred timbers already looked older than the everlasting hills that
towered on every hand, wrapped in the garment of eternal youth.

"What a lot of houses there are here," Mr. Fetherbee remarked to his
next neighbor, a seamy old reprobate with an evil eye.

"Hm!" was the reply, the articulate profanity of which was lost in a
cloud of the thickest, vilest tobacco smoke. "Ever seen a mining-camp
when the stuff's given out?"

"No; what does it look like?"

"Like a heap of bloomin' peanut-shells chucked in a corner."

At the _Mountain Lion_ were Allery Jones, Harry de Luce, Dick Dayton
"the mascot,"