ity had roused all his temper and passion. Yet,
withal, there was the touch of another world in his face. No stranger,
at second view, would have taken him for a native born. He had known a
different realm, and it had left its trace in a high brow, a fine
face, a clearer eye than one usually saw on the streets of the mining
camp.

"Yer darsn't do it!" leered again the same contemptible fellow. "Yer a
city kid an' hain't got sand 'nuff to make an ant-hill. I hearn tell
yer get the old man to button yer clothes, and yer cry in the
dark--guess it's so, ain't it, tenderfoot?"

At this remark the crowd of loungers around broke forth into cheers,
and Job's eyes, usually so blue, flashed fire. He sprang from Bess'
back, and, in an instant, had struck the bully a blow that sent him
reeling back into the arms of Yankee Sam. A moment, and a general
melee seemed imminent, when Dan Dean stepped up and called a halt. He
was the smoothest, most affable, meanest fellow in town, nephew by
marriage to the lord of Pine Tree Mountain, and, as he had always
boasted, the lord that was to be.

Job had always felt, ever since he came to Grizzly county, that Dan
was his mortal enemy, yet he had always been so sly Job had never been
able to prove him guilty of any one of the thousand petty annoyances
he was sure were instigated by him.

Taking Job by the arm, Dan now led him off to one side, while the
crowd were laughing at the blubbering bully backing up the street and
threatening all sorts of vengeance on "that tenderfoot."

All the trouble was over a horse-race. It was coming off next Sunday
down at Coyote Valley, four miles below town. Pete Wilkins had offered
his horse against all Grizzly county, and Dan Dean had boasted that he
had a horse, a black mare--or at least his Uncle Andy had--that could
beat any horse Pete could trot out. Pete had dared him to appear with
the mare; and Dan, well knowing he could not get her, was doing his
best to induce Job to steal away with her and run the race for him.
"Me and yer is cousins, yer know, seein' yer call the old man uncle
and he's my sure-enough uncle; so we's cousins, and we ought to be
pardners; now yer run the race, get the gold nugget the fellows at the
Yellow Jacket have put up, and I'll get Pete's bet, and my! won't we
have a lark! Fact is, yer don't want fellers to think yer a baby, I
know; and, as for its being Sunday, I say the better the day the
better the deed. Come, Job. I jest