he centre of an appreciative group, in the corner
of the big office, well away from the roaring wood fire, his chair
tilted back against the wall, his hat on the back of his head, spouting
entertainment in an uninterrupted stream. Not that Mr. Fetherbee was in
the habit of tilting his chair back, or, for the matter of that, of
wearing his hat on the back of his head. But here, at Lame Gulch, he
felt it incumbent upon him to enter as far as was practicable into the
spirit of the piece. As he sat, enveloped in smoke and surrounded by the
familiar forms of his Springtown cronies, he was obliged to admit that
the "piece" in question had not yet developed much action. Yet the
atmosphere was electric with possibilities, and the stage was well
peopled with "characters," not one of which escaped the watchful eye of
Mr. Fetherbee. A "character" he would have defined as a picturesque and
lawless being, given to claim-jumping, murder, and all ungodliness;
these qualities finding expression in a countenance at once fascinating
and forbidding, a bearing at once stealthy and imperious. If no single
one of the slouching, dark-browed apparitions that crossed his vision
could be said to fulfil all these requirements, the indications
scattered among them were sufficiently suggestive to have an
exhilarating effect upon the genial little story-teller.

And now it was morning and the serious business of the day had begun. He
was off for "the mines" with Dick Dayton, Allery Jones, and Frank
Discombe,--a young mining engineer who was far more proud of his
attainments as "Jehu," than of his really brilliant professional
reputation. They rattled noisily along the main street of the camp in a
loose-jointed vehicle drawn by two ambitious steeds which Allery Jones
characterized as "fiery skeletons." It was a glorious September morning,
and though there had been a heavy frost in the night, the sensitive
mountain air was already, two or three hours after sunrise, warmed and
mellowed through and through. The road soon began to rise, taking a fine
sweep about the shoulder of Bear Mountain, and then making its way over
obstacles of a pronounced nature, through a very poor and peaked "virgin
forest." The wood-cutter had hacked his way right and left, combining a
quest for firewood with his efforts in the service of the road-builder,
scorning to remove stumps and roots, delighting in sharp corners and
meaningless digressions. The horses struggled gallantl