ion," replied Sandy. "But there ain't any
extry hurry. They've been recorded. They'll keep. We'll git us some real
hot grub at one of these restyronts an' listen a bit to the news. Find
out where is the most likely place fo' you an' yore nevvy to locate."

"Ain't you afraid Plimsoll or some one'll have jumped those claims?"
asked the spinster.

"W'udn't be surprised. But there's allus two ways to jump, Miss Mirandy.
In an' _out_. Let's try Cal Simpson's Place. I knew him when he was
runnin' a chuck-wagon. He's sure some cook if it's him."

They pressed through the crowded street to the sign. Next door to the
cabin that Simpson had preempted on the first-come-first-served order
that prevailed, was one of the olden saloons. Through door and window
they could see the crowded bar with bottles and tin mugs upon the
ancient slab of wood. Over the door the inscription:

ROCKY MOUNTAIN GRAPEJUICE
MULE BRAND
TWO KICKS FOR ONE BUCK

Some looked curiously at Miranda Bailey, but the sight of her escort
checked any familiarity. Covered with dust from their ride, guns on
hip, the three musketeers did not encourage persiflage at the expense of
their outfit and they passed unchallenged into the eating-house where a
stubby man with a big paunch shouted greetings at Sandy.

"You ornery son of a gun! _An'_ Mormon. This yore last, Mormon. No? I
beg yore pardon, marm. I c'ud have wished Mormon 'ud struck somethin'
sensible an' satisfactory at last. It's his loss more'n your'n. What'll
you have, folks? I've got steak an' po'k an' beans. Drove over some
beef. More comin' ter-morrer. I'll have a real mennoo by the end of the
week. Steak? Seguro! Biscuits an' coffee."

He shouted orders to a helper and hurried off to pan-broil the steaks.
To the order he added some fried potatoes.

"They ain't on the bill-of-fare," he said. "Try 'em, marm. Hope you
strike it lucky, Sandy. Damn few--beggin' yore pahdon, miss--damn few of
this crowd ever had a blister on their hands. It ain't like the old days
when the sourdoughs made a strike. They worked their own shafts. This
bunch specklates on 'em. A claim'll change hands twenty times between
now an' ter-morrer night.

"Rush is over fo' the mornin'. I'll sit in with you, if you don't mind.
I got my steak in that pan."

"What's the indications?" asked Sandy, after Simpson had rejoined them.

"Big. Look here. White gold!" He pulled out a piece of tin white mineral
with a brillia