s and refinements rare in that crude civilization--both York
and Scott were frequent visitors. Yet into this charming retreat York
strode one evening, a month after the quarrel, and, beholding Scott
sitting there, turned to the fair hostess with the abrupt query, "Do you
love this man?" The young woman thus addressed returned that answer--at
once spirited and evasive--which would occur to most of my fair readers
in such an exigency. Without another word, York left the house. "Miss
Jo" heaved the least possible sigh as the door closed on York's curls
and square shoulders, and then, like a good girl, turned to her insulted
guest "But would you believe it, dear?" she afterward related to an
intimate friend, "the other creature, after glowering at me for a
moment, got upon its hind legs, took its hat, and left, too; and that's
the last I've seen of either."

The same hard disregard of all other interests or feelings in the
gratification of their blind rancor characterized all their actions.
When York purchased the land below Scott's new claim, and obliged the
latter, at a great expense, to make a long detour to carry a "tail-race"
around it, Scott retaliated by building a dam that overflowed York's
claim on the river. It was Scott, who, in conjunction with Colonel
Starbottle, first organized that active opposition to the Chinamen,
which resulted in the driving off of York's Mongolian laborers; it was
York who built the wagon-road and established the express which rendered
Scott's mules and pack-trains obsolete; it was Scott who called into
life the Vigilance Committee which expatriated York's friend,
Jack Hamlin; it was York who created the "Sandy Bar Herald," which
characterized the act as "a lawless outrage," and Scott as a "Border
Ruffian"; it was Scott, at the head of twenty masked men, who, one
moonlight night, threw the offending "forms" into the yellow river, and
scattered the types in the dusty road. These proceedings were received
in the distant and more civilized outlying towns as vague indications
of progress and vitality. I have before me a copy of the "Poverty Flat
Pioneer," for the week ending August 12, 1856, in which the editor,
under the head of "County Improvements," says: "The new Presbyterian
Church on C Street, at Sandy Bar, is completed. It stands upon the lot
formerly occupied by the Magnolia Saloon, which was so mysteriously
burnt last month. The temple, which now rises like a Phoenix from the
ashes