hing was ever hauled up it, save yellow bars of
bullion--so that did not matter. Down it, with a shriek of brakes, a
cloud of dust, a clank of harness and a rumble of oaths, came divers
matters, such as machinery, glassware, whiskey, mirrors, ammunition, and
pianos. From any one of a dozen bold points on this road one could see
far down and far up its entire white, thread-like length. The tiny
crawling teams each with its puff of dust crawling with it; the great
tumbled peaks of the Sierras; the river so far below as to resemble a
little stream, the round Cove with its toy houses and its distant
ant-like industry--all these were plainly to be seized by a glance of
whatever eye cared to look.

As time went on a great many teams and pack trains and saddle animals
climbed up and down that road. Bright's Cove became quite a town. Old
Man Bright made six millions; other men aggregated nearly four millions
more; still others acquired deep holes and a deficit. It might be
remarked in passing that the squaw acquired experience, a calico dress
or so, and a final honourable discharge. Being an Indian she quite
cheerfully went back to pounding acorns in a _metate_.

In the fifth year of prosperity there drifted into camp two men,
possessed of innocence, three mules, and a thousand dollars. They
retained the mules; and, it is to be presumed, at least a portion of the
innocence.

The thousand dollars went to the purchase of the Lost Dog from Barney
Fallan. The Lost Dog consisted quite simply of a hole in the ground
guarded by an excellent five stamp-mill. The latter's existence could
only be explained by the incurable optimism of Barney Fallan--certainly
not by the contents of the hole in the ground. To the older men of the
camp it seemed a shame, for the newcomers were nice, fresh-cheeked,
clear-eyed lads to whom everything was new and strange and wonderful,
their enthusiasm was contagious, and their cheerful command of
vernacular exceedingly heart-warming. California John, then a man in his
forties, tried to head off the deal.

"Look here, son," said he to Gaynes. "Don't do it. There's nothin' in
it. Take my word."

"But Fallan's got a good stamp-mill all ready for business, and the
ledge----"

"Son," said California John, "every once in a while the Lord gets to
experimentin' makin' brains for a new species of jackass, and when he
runs out of donkeys to put 'em in----"

"Meaning me?" demanded Gaynes, his fair skin turning