scornfully. "He ain't my style."

"Fetch him up to my cabin; he may be of some use to us."

Dawson looked skeptical. "I reckon he ain't no more gain here than he
was over there," he said, and turned away.

II.

The cabin of Major Overstone differed outwardly but little from those of
his companions. It was the usual structure of logs, laid lengthwise, and
rudely plastered at each point of contact with adobe, the material from
which the chimney, which entirely occupied one gable, was built. It
was pierced with two windows and a door, roofed with smaller logs, and
thatched with long half cylinders of spruce bark. But the interior
gave certain indications of the distinction as well as the peculiar
experiences of its occupant. In place of the usual bunk or berth built
against the wall stood a small folding camp bedstead, and upon a rude
deal table that held a tin wash-basin and pail lay two ivory-handled
brushes, combs, and other elegant toilet articles, evidently the
contents of the major's dressing-bag. A handsome leather trunk occupied
one corner, with a richly caparisoned silver-mounted Mexican saddle,
a mahogany case of dueling pistols, a leather hat-box, locked and
strapped, and a gorgeous gold and quartz handled ebony "presentation"
walking stick. There was a certain dramatic suggestion in this
revelation of the sudden and hurried transition from a life of
ostentatious luxury to one of hidden toil and privation, and a further
significance in the slow and gradual distribution and degradation of
these elegant souvenirs. A pair of silver boot-hooks had been used
for raking the hearth and lifting the coffee kettle; the ivory of the
brushes was stained with coffee; the cut-glass bottles had lost their
stoppers, and had been utilized for vinegar and salt; a silver-framed
hand mirror hung against the blackened wall. For the major's occupancy
was the sequel of a hurried flight from his luxurious hotel at
Sacramento--a transfer that he believed was only temporary until
the affair blew over, and he could return in safety to brow-beat his
accusers, as was his wont. But this had not been so easy as he had
imagined; his prosecutors were bitter, and his enforced seclusion had
been prolonged week by week until the fracas which ended in the shooting
of the sheriff had apparently closed the door upon his return to
civilization forever. Only here was his life and person secure. For
Wynyard's Bar had quickly succumbed to the do