on the map, appeared to be a place of some
importance, but a closer inspection proved that--in spite of its breezy
name--it would take the spirits of a Mark Tapley to withstand its
discouraging surroundings. Plymouth is "living in hopes," an English
syndicate having an option on certain mining properties in the vicinity;
but Nashville is frankly "out of business."

At Nashville, in fact, I had some difficulty in securing "bed and
lodging." There appeared to be only three families in this once
flourishing camp. Strange as it may seem, money appears to be no object
to people in these sequestered places. You have "to make good," and in
this instance it required not a little tact and diplomacy.

I arrived at Placerville the following day. Due to taking a road not
shown on my map, I went several miles astray and for some few hours was
immersed in wild, chaparral-covered mountains, with evidences on all
hands of deserted mines; finally crossing a divide at an elevation of
two thousand feet and descending into the valley where slumbers
the little town of El Dorado, formerly bearing the less attractive
designation "Mud Springs." This title, though lacking in euphony, was
more in keeping with actual conditions, since the valley is noted for
its springs, and Diamond Springs, a mile or two north, is quite a summer
resort. Nor is there any indication of the precious metal anywhere in
the immediate vicinity.

In Placerville--known as "Hangtown" in the Bret Harte days--I registered
at the Cary House, which once had the honor of entertaining no less a
personage than Horace Greeley. It was here he terminated his celebrated
stage ride with Hank Monk. I found that my friend Harold Edward Smith
had gone to Coloma, eight miles on the road to Auburn, and had left a
note saying he would wait for me there the following morning.

Chapter IV

J. H. Bradley and the Cary House. Ruins of Coloma. James W. Marshall and
His Pathetic End.

More than any other town, Placerville gave a suggestion of the olden
times. "John Oakhurst" and "Jack Hamlin" would still be in their
element, as witness the following scene:

In the card room back of the bar, in a certain hotel, a "little game"
was in progress. A big, blond giant, with curly hair and clean-cut
features--indeed he could have posed as a model for Praxiteles--arose
nonchalantly from the table as I entered, and swept the stakes into a
capacious pocket. An angry murmur of disapproval ca