s. She laughed, and said that if Andy would go and fight and
come home a hero, she would marry him--perhaps.

So he went. Tramped over miles and miles of Mexican soil, fought at
Monterey and Buena Vista, endured and almost died--men said for love
of Yankeedom; he knew it was for Mary Moore.

The war over, he came back a hero, and Col. Malden was named with old
Zach Taylor by tried, loyal men. But Mary Moore was gone. She had
found another hero. Gone to Massachusetts, so they said.

That night, Andy Malden left the Kentucky hills forever. The news of
gold in California was in the air. He would join the mad procession
that, over plain and isthmus, was going hither. He would go as far
from the old life as deserts and mountains would put him.

So he came to Gold City. With a diligence far more systematic than the
others, he had washed the gold from Frost Creek and off Mormon Bar.
Other men lost all they found in daylight over the gaming table at
midnight. He never gambled. All the others who succeeded went below to
the great city or back to the States to enjoy their gains. He cared
naught for the city, he hated the States; he never went. In a solitary
mountain spot amid immeasurable grandeur, he buried himself in his
lonely cabin. Yet he was not a hermit. He mingled with the crowd; he
sought its suffrage for public office; yet he was not of it. He was a
mystery to all. They elected him to office and continued to do so;
why, they never knew, unless it was because he could save for them
when others could not.

At last he married a farmer's girl from the plains, who had come up
there to teach the Frost Creek school. She failed as a teacher. She
was born for the kitchen and farm. Andrew Malden saw it. She would
make him as good a helpmate as any, better than the Chinese women and
half-breeds with whom some of his neighbors consorted, so he married.

The mines were giving out. His keen eye saw there were mines above
ground as well as below. He quietly left off placer mining, drew out
some gold from a hidden purse, and, before the world of Gold City knew
it, had nine hundred acres on Pine Tree Mountain, a big saw-mill
going, a nice ranch home, and barns like folks back in the States.

At last a baby came--a baby boy; almost the first in Grizzly county.
The neighbors would have cheered if they dared. Judge Lawson did dare
to suggest a celebration, but the people were afraid of the stern man
on Pine Tree Mountain.

Oh, how