re of the old days, when no doubt there were a good many
folks in Deadwood who left the town just as well off after they
had been assassinated. "Killed by Indians" was also the record on
some of the boards. Ollie was greatly interested in the Chinese
graves, with dishes of rice and chicken on them, and colored
papers covered with curious characters--prayers, I suppose. We
climbed on up to the White Rocks, almost at the top of the
highest peak overlooking Deadwood, and had a good view of the
town and gulch below, and of the great Bear Butte standing out
alone and bold miles to the east. We were tired, and glad to go
to bed as soon as we got back to the wagon.

The next day we decided to visit Lead City (pronounced not
like the metal, but like the verb to lead). Here were most of the
big gold mines, including the great Homestake Mine. It was only
two or three miles, and we drove over early. It was a strange
town, perched on the side of a mountain, and consisted of small
openings in the ground, which were the mines, and immense
shed-like buildings, which contained the ore-reducing works. The
noise of the stamp-mills filled the whole town, and seemed to
drown out and cover up everything else. We soon found that there
was no hope of our getting into the mines.

"They'd think you were spies for the other mines, or
something of that sort," said a man to us. "Nobody can get down.
Nobody knows where they are digging, and they don't mean that
anybody shall. They may be digging under their own property
exclusively, and they may not. For all I know, they may be taking
gold that belongs to me a thousand feet, more or less, under my
back yard."

"If I had a back yard here," said Jack, after we had passed
on, "I'd put my ear to the ground once in a while and listen, and
if I heard anybody burrowing under it I'd--well--I'd yell scat at
'em."

We found no difficulty in getting in the stamp-mills, and a
man kindly told us much about them.

"The Homestake Mills make up the largest gold-reducing plant
in the world," said the man. "Where do you suppose the largest
single stamp-mill in the world is?" We guessed California.

"No," he said; "it's in Alaska--the Treadwell Mill."

We decided that the stamp-mills were the noisiest place we
were ever in. There were hundreds of great steel bars, three or
four inches in diameter and a dozen feet long, pounding up and
down at the same time on the ore and reducing it to powde