k hands with him, not because we did
not know, but because we had not been officially notified, and there
were those present who knew how it was themselves. When the sheriff
arrived Wilkins had moved on, and Jimville organized a posse and brought
him back, because the sheriff was a Jimville man and we had to stand by
him.

I said we had the church fair at the Silver Dollar. We had most things
there, dances, town meetings, and the kinetoscope exhibition of the
Passion Play. The Silver Dollar had been built when the borders of
Jimville spread from Minton to the red hill the Defiance twisted
through. "Side-Winder" Smith scrubbed the floor for us and moved the bar
to the back room. The fair was designed for the support of the circuit
rider who preached to the few that would hear, and buried us all in
turn. He was the symbol of Jimville's respectability, although he was of
a sect that held dancing among the cardinal sins. The management took no
chances on offending the minister; at 11.30 they tendered him the
receipts of the evening in the chairman's hat, as a delicate intimation
that the fair was closed. The company filed out of the front door and
around to the back. Then the dance began formally with no feelings hurt.
These were the sort of courtesies, common enough in Jimville, that
brought tears of delicate inner laughter.

There were others besides Mr. Fanshawe who had walked out of Mr. Harte's
demesne to Jimville and wore names that smacked of the soil,--"Alkali
Bill," "Pike" Wilson, "Three Finger," and "Mono Jim;" fierce, shy,
profane, sun-dried derelicts of the windy hills, who each owned, or had
owned, a mine and was wishful to own one again. They laid up on the worn
benches of the Silver Dollar or the Same Old Luck like beached vessels,
and their talk ran on endlessly of "strike" and "contact" and "mother
lode," and worked around to fights and hold-ups, villainy, haunts, and
the hoodoo of the Minietta, told austerely without imagination.

Do not suppose I am going to repeat it all; you who want these things
written up from the point of view of people who do not do them every day
would get no savor in their speech.

Says Three Finger, relating the history of the Mariposa, "I took it
off'n Tom Beatty, cheap, after his brother Bill was shot."

Says Jim Jenkins, "What was the matter of him?"

"Who? Bill? Abe Johnson shot him; he was fooling around Johnson's wife,
an' Tom sold me the mine dirt cheap."

"Why didn